


Haute Couture

by bubblesodatea



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Gratuitous Fashion Talk, POC Anthony Lockwood, Sliding into the DMs, Slow Burn, Social Media, anthony is a model, lucy is a journalist, quill and holly are fashion designers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21984409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblesodatea/pseuds/bubblesodatea
Summary: In other words: dressmaking, high fashion, good spirits.Anthony Lockwood, rising star in the international modeling community, knows there are certain standards that differentiate him from the mass majority.  He has a goals, he has ambitions, and he's curated the perfect image.If only he could stop thinking about that surly reporter from Fittes.
Relationships: Flo Bones/George Cubbins, Holly Munro/Kat Godwin, Lucy Carlyle/Anthony Lockwood, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Quill Kipps/Jessica Lockwood
Comments: 244
Kudos: 205





	1. London

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to @dumbledoreslingerie on discord for reading through for me!

**_IS LOVE IN THE AIR AT VERNON HALL?_ **

_London Fashion Week is in full swing, with designers and artists abuzz at the historic Vernon Hall amphitheatre located at 180 Strand. With all the excitement in the air, could there be something else about…?_

_Holly Munro and Quill Kipps, co-founders of the London-based fashion house Quill &Munro have been spotted showing more affection than normal business partners usually do. Munro, 25, was photographed taking a sip from a raspberry mocha before passing the cup to Kipps, 27. That swoon worthy ginger then took a long drink from the very same cup! _

_It can be safely assumed that sparks are flying between these two attractive young titans of industry. We at the The Hambleton Times wouldn’t be surprised if Quill &Munro started designing wedding dresses any time soon… _

“This is the stupidest bullshit I’ve ever read.”

  
Vernon Hall’s backstage is crowded, as it always is right before a show starts. The lights are violently bright, and the noise is such that anyone not standing directly within the personal space of another would have to raise their voice to be heard. Hairspray hangs heavy in the air. 

The people within its walls are beautiful, handsome, each and everyone of them. Glossy eyelids, limber muscles, perfectly manicured nails. Not a single hair out of place. 

And he stands in the middle of it all, head held high and arms outstretched as his final measurements are taken. 

Anthony John Leong-Lockwood is a media sensation, a rising star in the modeling industry. The son of two of England’s most renowned creatives and the brother of starlet Jessica Leong-Lockwood, Anthony is often praised as one of the world’s top models. His megawatt smile can be seen on catwalks and newspapers across Europe, and he’s famous for his elegant stance and perfect posture. 

Right now, he’s maintaining that brilliant composure even as a raging designer nearly stabs his left calf with a ball-headed pin. 

“I think it’s kind of funny,” Anthony remarks, cutting off Kipps’ grumbling. The shorter man shoots him a glare from where he’s kneeling on the floor. 

“Of course you do. It’s not your life they’re making shit up about,” Kipps snaps. 

“The Hambleton Times is quite kind to you, if anything. I can’t imagine anyone else referring to you as _that swoon worthy ginger_.”

“Shut up.”

Anthony grins, but doesn’t say anything else. He’s been stabbed by Kipps before (accidentally and deliberately), and as fun as it is to push his buttons, Fashion Week is too big of an event to spend bleeding. Luckily, Holly comes into the room before either of the men can restart their bickering. The woman has always had a calming presence, one that makes the people around her want to be their best. Kipps stands to greet her. 

“I presume you both saw the article about myself and Quill?” Holly asks. Her voice is melodic and even as it always is, but there’s a glimmer of mischief in her dark eyes. 

Kipps nods, folding his arms over his chest. “It’s ridiculous. They assume that just because a man and a woman are close, it means that they’re fu—”

“I agree, Quill,” Holly says, tactfully interrupting the man. She doesn’t seem nearly as bothered by the article as Kipps is; if anything, she’s amused. Holly walks over to Kipps’ side and places a comforting hand on his arm. “Don’t worry, I have the perfect solution to those rumors.” 

Anthony peers over Kipps’ head. “What would that be?” 

Holly smiles at Anthony and presses a finger to her raspberry-painted lips. “You’ll see soon enough—for now, love, let’s take these pins out and see how the adjusted suit looks on you.” 

Anthony’s always enjoyed working with Kipps and Holly. They balance each other out well; Holly is the people-person, the brains behind the way the house works. It was Holly who had first reached out to Anthony’s agency and hired him, her confident smile and perfectly styled hair instantly convincing Anthony’s agent that Quill&Munro would be the perfect job for him. Quill was the one from whom all artistic genius came from; as short-tempered and reclusive as the man was, no one could deny that he had a gift for the avant-garde. Spinning around now, observing himself in the mirror, Anthony can see that Kipps has outdone himself once again. The suit now fit perfectly. 

The Spring/Summer collection for Quill&Munro is inspired by Regency England, and the aesthetic translates well to Anthony’s ensemble. He’s clad in tight Prussian blue breeches and a pair of slick black boots that go up past his knees. On his upper body he wears a cropped riding coat in a matching blue shade, and as Anthony turns his body from side to side, he can hear the gentle jingle of the golden epaulettes on his jacket’s shoulder. Underneath the jacket is a dangerously sheer white blouse.

Anthony isn’t exactly self-conscious about his body (he is, after all, a model), but he’s never been this exposed on the catwalk before. He turns to Kipps, unsure. 

“Do I button up the jacket?”

“No.” Kipps doesn’t glance up from where he’s organizing his sewing kit. 

Anthony turns back to his figure in the mirror. “Ah.” 

He meets his reflection’s eyes. They’re an inky black that glitter in the light of the mirror’s LEDs. Anthony’s vaguely aware of Holly and Kipps leaving the room (presumably to change into their own outfits), but he’s brought out of his thoughts when the door opens a second time. 

He turns around, expecting to see Holly or Kipps, or perhaps an assistant sent to touch up his hair and makeup, and is stunned to see someone else entirely. 

The woman is tall, but not exceptionally so. Her shoulders are slightly hunched over and she’s fiddling on her phone, the brogues on her feet clicking loudly against the concrete floor. Anthony is, frankly, impressed by how well she’s balancing her assorted things; there’s a laptop case slung around her right arm, a heavy-looking garment bag held in her left arm, and her free hand is clutching a paper tray with two coffees. He can’t even fathom how she got the door open.

“Can I help you?” he asks politely, stepping down from the stool that Kipps had placed him on. The woman looks up from her phone, the expression on her face stricken as if she had wandered backstage completely by accident. She reaches out a hand to shake his, then seems to realize the improbability of it while both hands are full. Anthony takes the tray and garment bag from her, careful not to ruin his outfit, and places them on a free table. 

They shake hands. Her palm is small and warm.

“Lucy Carlyle, with Fittes. I’m a fashion reporter. I should have been here at three, but they had trouble scanning in my pass because I just got it this morning—My photographer should arrive in around five minutes.” 

She brushes her wispy bangs out of her eyes as she speaks, a strong Northern accent coloring her voice. Her words are professional, but there’s a stiffness about her that Anthony can pick up instantly. Lucy observes his outfit, eyes darting away quickly once her gaze reaches the translucency of his shirt. 

“Of course. I remember we had an interview scheduled,” Anthony says, smiling at her in an attempt to make her feel more at ease. Lucy responds with what she must think is a smile, but looks more like a grimace. There are dark-circles underneath her dark doe-eyes, and Anthony wonders if there’s something about interviewing him that stressed her out. He can’t imagine what it could possibly be. They even seem to be around the same age; he’s 22, and Lucy looks more like a university student than a working woman. 

He offers her a seat, which she takes. Anthony remains standing, worried that he might otherwise crease his clothing. 

“Are you new at Fittes?” Anthony asks, trying to make polite small talk until her photographer can arrive. 

“Yes,” Lucy says, and doesn’t elaborate. 

She opens her laptop case and takes out a thin Macbook, her concentration now directed towards the screen. Anthony wants to ask her more questions, something to clear the formality in the air, but it’s not really his place. He is, after all, the one being interviewed. Instead, Anthony decides to observe her as well as he can without being noticed. 

Lucy’s dressed very conservatively, almost homely. Her tweed jacket practically swallows up most of her body, and the only parts of her silhouette not obscured by it are her tights and brogues. Everything she’s wearing is some ratty shade of brown. It makes her stick out against the sleek, monochromatic gloss of the dressing room. 

Anthony’s noting the flutter of her dark lashes when she abruptly looks up from her screen, and they lock eyes. Lucy looks away, startled to have been watched. There’s a flush spreading along the light brown of her cheek, and Anthony feels like he should say something to explain—

“Sorry I’m late.” 

A bespeckled blond man comes clambering in before Anthony can make a sound, the large camera in his hand very clearly identifying him as Lucy’s missing photographer. The photographer introduces himself as George Cubbins (the name is familiar) and starts setting up his equipment.

Lucy stands back up and places her phone on the table, screen-side up to clearly display its recording. 

“Anthony Lockwood, thank you so much for meeting with me. I’d like to begin our pre-show interview.” 

Anthony steps back on the stool, smiling at the camera. He spreads his arms magnanimously. 

“What do you want to know?"

* * *

**_SHOCKING! HOLLY MUNRO LESBIAN, ENGAGED TO NEW BLONDE BEAUTY!_ **

_After a successful showing of Quill &Munro’s third Spring/Summer Collection at London Fashion Week, everyone in the audience was shocked as the designer and businesswoman came back up to the stage at the end of the night. _

_Munro, pictured here in a gorgeous fuschia satin gown, looked radiant as she took the microphone from announcer Maddy Walker._

_“I’m so honored to be here tonight especially around people who mean so much to me,” said Munro. She smiled at business partner Quill Kipps (dressed in a black asymmetrical suit of his own design) as she said these words, leading the audience to believe that the woman’s speech would touch on the rumored romance between the two._

_Many were shocked when Munro instead turned to Katharine Godwin, fashion editor at Fittes, who was seated in the front row. The platinum blonde seemed as stunned as the rest of us as Munro brought her onstage and proposed, presenting 26-year-old Godwin with a sapphire engagement ring. Godwin accepted._

_“Holly and I have been together for three years,” said Godwin in a post-show interview. “We didn’t want to be public with it until we knew it was for real, and I’m so glad to know now that it is.”_

_“Kat and I met through work, but Quill’s the one who really saw that we worked well together,” said Munro. “I don’t think I would have asked her out without his encouragement.”_

_With Munro’s relationship now public, fans are now doubly curious over the status of Kipp’s personal life. When questioned, Munro declined to comment specifically._

_“Quill is a very private person, and I respect that. Our relationship has always been platonic, but I wouldn’t trade my friendship with him for anything in the world.”_

_Sorry #Quillolly fans! As disappointed as we are, we at The Hambleton Times are hopeful that we get an invite to what’s bound to be one of the most star-studded weddings in the decade._

“Ooh, Holly’s going to _hate_ that one,” Anthony says. He’s dressed in his comfiest pajamas, stretched out over the couch with a mug of jasmine tea—his favorite post-show ritual. 

His sister hums in agreement. “The casual homophobia really makes this article.”

She perks up. “But I think you’ll like this one!” 

**_How Chinese-English Model Anthony Lockwood Became the Runway’s Unconventional Hero._ **

_Anthony Lockwood stands at 185 centimeters, and his lean, svetle frame is nothing new on the runway. His composure before his first show during London Fashion Week is impeccable. However, the recent Oxford grad is bringing change to the industry nonetheless, simply by existing as an English male model of color._

_“I’m very English,” remarks Lockwood. “I love to queue, I love football, and I simply adore chocolate biscuits. But I’m also half-Asian, and I think that’s made it hard for people to see me as an Englishman.”_

_Lockwood is the son of Hong Kong born director Donald Leong (most known for his Oscar-winning drama “To Die Young”) and native English designer Celia Lockwood. Born and raised in London, Lockwood has always refused to play by the fashion industry’s rules._

_“When my parents first got together, the media made a bunch of jokes saying how an English rose had settled for a Cantonese fortune cookie. They took it in stride, and now their pet names for each other are ‘rose’ and ‘cookie.’”_

_Lockwood laughs, his smile as striking off-stage as it is on. “Of course, as their son, I think it’s embarrassing. But I also admire their strength and patience. I don’t think I would be here without them.”_

_He gestures at his outfit, a Quill Kipps masterpiece of blue silk and leather. “I mean, how many times have you seen a Regency hero who looks like me?”_

“It goes on for another page, but you can read it yourself,” Jessica says, pushing her tablet towards her younger brother. Anthony takes it and looks at the byline—Lucy Carlyle. 

“She’s an excellent writer,” Jessica notes. “What’s she like? I’ve been interviewed by Fittes before, and I’ve never heard of her.”

Anthony sets down his tea, eyes poring over the article. “She said she was new.” 

Jessica’s right (as she often is); Lucy Carlyle is an excellent writer. Her article about Anthony is short, but it gives a very honest and heartfelt look into his life. There’s no sensationalism, and the photo chosen for the piece is straightforward; a front-angle shot of Anthony in front of the mirror, one hand in his pocket, the other laid over his heart. It’s a great photo.

Anthony can’t believe that the newcomer reporter, who had seemed so uncomfortable yesterday, had managed to turn a rather ordinary interview into such a well-written profile. 

“You must introduce me to her next time, Tony,” Jessica says, grinning around Anthony’s least favorite nickname. Anthony pokes her shoulder roughly.

“I’ve only met her the once, but I’m sure she’d be thrilled to meet you. If she was starstruck around me, I can’t imagine how’d she react to interviewing _you_.” 

Jessica Lockwood is, afterall, a bit of a renaissance woman. Six years older than her brother, she had started off modeling before quickly moving onto acting. In her short career, Jessica has already been nominated for an Oscar and had won a BAFTA. Anthony isn’t the jealous type, so he instead regards his sister with equal amounts of admiration and competitiveness. 

Still, he thinks as he finishes the article and sees the adoring comments underneath the post, he can’t help but feel that Lucy Carlyle’s article is already one of the highlights of his own career. 

* * *

**Mara Sparter @martysparty · 18m**

OMG OMG i met @hollymunro and @ogKATg at tesco’s this morning and they were??? so nice??? GAG ME QUEENS.

**Holly Munro @hollymunro **✔️** · 16m**

_Replying to @martysparty_

It was a pleasure meeting you Mara! ❤️❤️

**✨FUTURE MR LOCKWOOD✨ @kentswells · 20m**

Hello has anyone else read @FITTESmagazine’s newest article about @ajlockwood bc i have decided to stan forever.

**Jessica Lockwood @jessssica **✔️** · 12m**

So thrilled to see such a well written article about my brother on the front page of @FITTESmagazine this morning! www.fittes.co.uk/anthony-lockwood-ss19

* * *

The restaurant that Holly and Kat have chosen for their engagement party is a classy Indonesian place in the heart of London. The lighting is warm and romantic, and a well-known classical quartet plays at the front of the room. WIth several big names of the entertainment and fashion industry in attendance, Anthony isn’t terribly surprised to see a table designated specifically for press near the piano. Holly delights in a chance to bolster public image, and the newscycle has been starved for good content since Fashion Week ended a fortnight ago.

He greets Holly and Kat, who are both quickly pulled aside to chat with some other guests. Anthony recognizes a handful of people in attendance; Flo Bones, the director, is brooding near the back of the room, and he can see a few other designers that he’s worked with in the past. He can’t see Kipps, but he frankly wouldn’t be surprised if the ginger hadn’t shown up at all. Holly and Kipps might be close, but Kipps tends to avoid any event where his attendance isn’t strictly required. 

“It’s much more formal than I thought it would be,” Jessica murmurs from the left of Anthony, accepting two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter; she passes one to Anthony.

“We fit in just fine,” Anthony says. They had styled themselves for the event, and he could tell from the approving looks of his fellow guests that they had done a good job. He's wearing a slate blue tuxedo with silver shoes, Jessica, a gauzy plum gown.

The siblings mingle around for a few minutes until Jessica catches sight of someone she recognizes from the film industry and disappears into a conversation with them, leaving Anthony to converse on his own. 

He’s in the middle of a rather banal conversation with Charles something-or-the-other, who works in textiles (or technology?), when someone collides into him. Luckily, Anthony’s reflexes are fast enough that he neither spills nor drops his champagne, but it knocks the air out of him all the same. 

“I’m so sorry, are you alright?” 

The accent is familiar, and when Anthony turns around, he’s not entirely surprised to see Lucy Carlyle once again. She sticks out from the rest of the guests rather obviously, wearing the same heavy overcoat and sensible brogues. Her short brown hair has been pulled up into a ponytail, but her outfit looks otherwise identical. It very apparently marks her as an outsider. 

Some of the people around them cast Lucy strange looks for breaking the dress code, but Anthony doesn’t mind either way. If Holly felt comfortable enough letting her in, then it’s not Anthony’s place to say anything. Besides, she’s press.

“I’m Lucy Carlyle,” Lucy says, quickly offering out her hand. “From Fittes magazine. We had an interview during—” 

“London Fashion Week. I remember,” Anthony says, grasping Lucy’s hand with both of his own. He gives her his most winning smile. “Your article was fantastic. Definitely one of the highlights of the week.” 

Lucy stares at him. “Thank you.”

It becomes rapidly apparent that Lucy will make no lengths to continue the conversation, but Anthony presses on.

“Did you work at any other publications before Fittes? Your accent is northern.” 

“No. I’m from near the Scottish border, but Fittes hired me right out of university,” Lucy answers. A waiter offers her a champagne flute, and she snatches it out of his hand. 

“That’s...very impressive,” Anthony says. He’s never seen Fittes hire such a young reporter, especially one that doesn’t seem to have any special connections or previous experience. Judging from the sample of her work he’s seen so far, Lucy’s portfolio seems to have really made her stand out to Penelope Fittes. Lucy doesn’t seem to think much of it, however, taking a pensive sip from her glass. 

“It’s different,” Lucy says, her tone neither positive nor negative. “You’re much more interesting—your career, I mean.” 

“Really?”

Lucy nods, a firmness in the movement. “I mean, with two famous parents and the industry being so tumultuous, it’s frankly a godsend that you grew up to be so...”

“Normal?”

“Well-adjusted,” Lucy suggests hastily, and she flushes. “To graduate with first-class honor from Oxford and model at the same time is no small feat. I don’t really know how to talk to people here, but you just... _exude_ approachability. Interviews are fine, but small talk is a whole other issue.”

Anthony smiles at Lucy. Ah, so that’s how she is—still foreign to this industry. He doesn’t hold it against her. She seems intelligent and reasonable, and he can’t blame her for being a little starstruck. As long as her interviews remain professional, Anthony is content to be her practice dummy for conversation.

“You’ll find that most of these people can be quite personable if you butter them up enough. The remaining few...Well, they’re creatives. Their opinions on you can change at the drop of a hat,” Anthony says, gesturing vaguely with his champagne flute. Lucy gives him that same uncertain grimace-smile in response, and he knows his words haven’t eased any of her concerns.

“Here, let me help.” Anthony hands his flute to a passing waiter and crouches down to Lucy’s eye level. He wrinkles his nose.

“What are you doing, Lockwood?” Lucy asks.

“Lockwood? I’m not Lockwood! I’m Quill Kipps, I am, I am!” Anthony says in a surprisingly decent impression of Kipps’ estuary accent. “And well, I _hate_ coming to parties, but I love not talking to people, so you’re the perfect company for me, Lucy Car-ly-lee.”

Lucy lets out a sharp bark of laughter, and quickly covers her smile with her free hand. “You’re going to get yourself blacklisted,” she hisses, and then adds as an afterthought: “And it’s Carlyle, not Car-ly-lee.” 

“I know, but we’re enacting what it would be like to be in a conversation with Kipps, and there’s no way he’d remember the pronunciation. Trust me. I have firsthand experience,” Anthony says in his normal accent.

Lucy lowers her hand, and Anthony’s glad to see the traces of her genuine smile on her face before she replaces it with a neutral expression. 

“Well, then what would Kipps say if I asked him why he decided to go into fashion design?”

“You might read in my biography that it was because I found it an apt creative outlet, but that’s not the truth,” Anthony says, back to his Kipp voice. 

“No?” Lucy raises an eyebrow.

“No! You see, when I was but a young lad, I came upon the most _beautiful_ flower in the garden. It plucked it, and the flower spirit told me that she would give me amazing artistic talent in exchange for my ability to feel joy, and I've been this way ever since—”

“What the hell are you doing?”

Anthony whips around to see a very unhappy Kipps, his ginger hair slicked back and a tight frown on his face. Kipps’ arms are crossed, fingers tapping impatiently on his bicep the way he does whenever he’s pissed. 

“Oh, Kipps! I didn’t think you’d be here tonight,” Anthony says, hastily standing up straight and to offer the other man a hug. He doesn’t take it.

Kipps’ scowl deepens. “Evidently.”

“I was just talking to the new fashion reporter from Fittes—” But when Anthony turns around, Lucy is nowhere to be seen. 

“It seems she didn’t have much patience for your skit either,” Kipps says, before launching into a lengthy rant about all the times Anthony’s disrespected him, but Anthony’s not really paying attention. Partly because he’s heard this rant dozens of times before, but mostly because he can’t stop thinking about the earnestness that had been in Lucy’s smile.

* * *

It’s hard for public figures to maintain relationships. Romantic ones, of course—celebrity marriages aren’t exactly known for their longevity—but platonic and familial ones as well. Anthony knows he’s lucky that his parents’ marriage is so successful. He has friends from university, sons and daughters of politicians and actors alike that complain about their new stepfamilies. Celia Lockwood’s talked about how grateful she is to have married someone who understands living with fame. Donald’s told the story of his girlfriend before Celia, how she had eventually broken up with Donald over his newfound success and the pressure that came with it. 

Jessica’s usually surrounded by a gaggle of people, celebrities and everyday folks alike. It seems that in every press clipping she’s with a different group of people, flitting from person to person as quickly as each day changes. She’s a social butterfly, but Anthony knows that the circle of people she legitimately trusts is tiny. He’s frankly impressed with how little of her life Jessica can give away, all while seeming open and bared for the world to see.

Anthony doesn’t have the experience to toe the line as delicately as his sister does. His parents had raised him to be as normal as possible, but he’s been a household name for a while now. He likes the fame that comes with being a model, likes the connections he has in the industry. There’s not a lot he wouldn’t sacrifice to sustain it. He has ambitions, after all.

The diet he maintains, the image he presents, the relationships he has (or doesn’t have)—they’re all carefully curated so the version of himself that people see is the one that he chose.

One of his hobbies is scouring tabloids and seeing what kind of gibberish people write about him. It’s fun to laugh at the absurdity of some of then, and satisfying to see how it all goes his way.

* * *

**Anthony Lockwood @ajlockwood **✔️** · 2d**

I loved Phantom of the Opera on West End w/mum and dad!! Wish i could rock a doublet like raoul 🤵

**Anthony Lockwood @ajlockwood **✔️** · 1d**

Omg just saw the FATTEST cat ever #caturday #seriouslyitwasthesizeofabus #nothyperbole

**Anthony Lockwood @ajlockwood **✔️** · 1d**

Thought tesco was out of choco leibniz for a second...nearly died tbh

**Anthony Lockwood @ajlockwood **✔️** · 18h**

So cool! @jessssica in the brand new trailer of @fbones‘s new movie GHOST STORY. 17/12, ready your cinema tickets.

**Anthony Lockwood @ajlockwood **✔️** · 2m**

Just arrived in Zermatt, Switzerland! ⛰️⛰️ if you want to know why, just wait a few days… 😉

* * *

**Lucy Carlyle @lucycwrites· 1m**

Landed in Switzerland. It’s goddamn freezing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want a reference for my super convoluted fashion AU, please check out my tumblr [here](https://allthatbubbles.tumblr.com/post/189661201141/my-completely-unnecessary-lockwood-and-co-fashion)  
> I guess this is going to be a multichapter fic. Why does this always happen to me. 
> 
> Chapter notes:  
> \- The Hambleton Times is a fictitious tabloid in the league of something like the Daily Mail or something equally trashy. Fittes Magazine (sometimes stylized FITTES) is heavily influenced by the likes of ELLE or Vogue. In terms of prestige, the the Hambleton doesn't come anywhere close Fittes.  
> \- London Fashion Week (LFW) is one of four major fashion weeks internationally, the others being NYC, Paris, and Milan.  
> \- The Spring/Summer shows take place in September, which is when our story begins.  
> \- Donald Lockwood-Leong is Chinese-English from Hong Kong, and Celia Lockwood is white English. Therefore, both Jessica and Anthony are half-Chinese, and both go by Lockwood professionally. 
> 
> \- Lockwood's regency outfit is partly inspired by this Les Hommes 2013 look:  
> 
> 
> \- Holly's LFW outfit would be similar to a gown from Monique Lhuillier:  
> 
> 
> \- Quill's LFW outfit is inspired by Givenchy's Fall/Winter 2012 line.  
> 
> 
> \- Lucy, meanwhile, is wearing something more like this which makes her very clearly stand out as an outsider.  
> 
> 
> \- For the party, Anthony's wearing Burberry:  
>   
> \- And Jessica's wearing Cushnie.  
>   
> Thanks for reading, and please comment if you feel so inclined! See you next time.


	2. Zermatt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @dumbledoreslingerie again for betaing!

It’s freezing in Zermatt, but the city is picturesque; seated at the foot of the Matterhorn, it almost looks like someone cut a perfect winter village out of a scrapbook and placed it in real life. There are no cars in the entire city, so Anthony’s agent has him staying at a ski resort near the foot of the mountains rather than a hotel to save on transportation. Anthony doesn’t mind. The view out of his window is spectacular, and he favors style over money spent any day. His shoot will be up in the mountains, at a ski slope reserved specifically for editorial.

He’s been booked for this winter fashion shoot since July. It’s a sixteen-page spread for Fittes’ annual holiday edition, and it’s a pretty big job. There’s only one other model appearing in the spread, and she’s apparently already shot her pages down in Aspen. He’s not used to having this many people on call just for him, but it’s pretty nice.

Fittes is, afterall, the largest magazine in the UK and one of the largest worldwide. They don’t seem to have spared any expense on their talent. Anthony has a person who preps his nails, someone else gets his coffee order, and a third person styles his hair so that it looks artfully tousled. 

“We have to work fast,” the girl grooming his eyebrows explains. “The sun sets early now that it’s October, and you’re only here for two days.”   
He’s finally prepped and stuffed into a Brunello Cucinelli sweater and neatly ironed slacks; his first outfit for the shoot. The sweater is warm, but not nearly warm enough for the freezing Swiss morning. Still, it’s his job to pretend like he’s having a glamorously fun time, so he smiles widely and is led to the photographer.

“Anthony Lockwood,” Anthony says by way of introduction. The photographer looks up; he’s scruffy and blond, in a hideous puffer jacket that Anthony would _kill_ to be wearing right now. 

“George Cubbins,” the photographer says, readjusting his glasses. “We’ve met before, at Fashion Week.” 

Anthony blinks. Oh, right, He’s heard of George Cubbins before as well, seen his pictures in all sorts of magazines, on all sorts of surfaces. People in their industry are clamoring to get George’s work. It’s kind of embarrassing that Anthony forgot his name.

“Well,” he says hastily, “I didn’t know you made the switch from freelance to Fittes. I remember that reporter you were with—”

“Lucy,” George says, peering over Anthony’s shoulder. Sure enough, the woman is there, bundled under five layers of scarves and long shirts. She walks over to where the two men are standing (with some difficulty, her shoes don’t seem to be made for snow) and greets George. Then she turns to Anthony. They haven’t interacted since Holly’s engagement party a fortnight ago.

It’s hard to make out what Lucy’s expression is under her scarf, but she shakes his hand once again.

“I’m here to write coverage on the shoot,” she says, voice muffled. 

“Yes, we come as a bit of a matching set,” George explains. “I don’t consider myself signed to Fittes, I consider myself signed to Lucy.” 

That’s rather unusual. Anthony wants to turn to Lucy, wants to ask her if she’s attended any other raging celebrity parties since he last saw her, but she’s quickly whisked away by a pink-haired PA. Anthony’s not too upset over it; he’s here for business, not pleasure, and his shoot is beginning anyways. 

The camera shutters. 

His first outfit is the sweater and slack combo, and Anthony poses with a copy of Dickens' _A Christmas Carol_ and pretends to be reading. The second outfit is all Hermès: a bright red cashmere coat and a matching Birkin bag. The third outfit has him sitting on a ski lift, with George and his PA on the chair in front of his, snapping photos frantically as they’re hundreds of feet up in the air. Anthony knows that he’s harnessed to the chair, and that there’s no way that they would accidentally drop him off the mountain, but it’s still hard to be as nonchalant as the ski lift jolts and hums.

Then, there’s a break for lunch. George and his team disappear into a large tent, and someone covers Anthony up in a fleece blanket. He wolfs down his lunch; it’s some sort of thick soup with pasta and beef that he’s never had before, but the warmth of it is heaven to his freezing body. After lunch, he brushes his teeth, drinks an entire bottle of water (who would have thought snow could be so dehydrating?), and is stuffed into his next outfit.

They manage two more ensembles before George calls it a day, the sun already rapidly setting behind the mountains. Anthony thought he would want to explore Zermatt with his free time, but all he wants to do now is crawl under his comforter and hibernate.

He eventually settles in the resort’s lobby, comfortably melting into a cushy sofa. Every so often a hotel worker comes by and offers him hot drinks and pastries, which he indulges in. Besides the worker and other guests that flit in and out, the lobby is empty. Anthony uses the peace to catch up on his social media feeds.

The blissful silence is interrupted around two hours into his refuge when someone comes in through the front door with a loud sneeze. Anthony looks over, and is not entirely surprised to see Lucy Carlyle once again. Her face is stung red from the cold.

Lucy shuffles to the fireplace in the lobby and slumps onto the carpet next to the grate, teeth chattering as she defrosts. She doesn’t seem to realize anyone else is in the room.

“Are you alright, Lucy?” Anthony asks. He keeps his voice soft as to not startle her, but she jolts anyways.

“I’m—a—bloody— _idiot_ ,” Lucy says, teeth chattering. “I lost track of time in the tent and now I’m going to die of hypothermia.”

Anthony sets his iPad down and pats the seat next to his. “Come sit here on the sofa. I can’t imagine the floor is all that comfortable.”

He’s surprised when Lucy frowns (does she somehow prefer the carpet?); regardless, she stands up and takes the seat next to him. Despite the fact that she’s wearing several layers, all of her clothing seems to be rather thin and unfit for the weather. Her scarf, a ratty mauve thing, definitely doesn’t seem like it would do any actual warming. Anthony slips off his overcoat and offers it to her. She eyes it warily.

“Why are you giving this to me?”

Anthony blinks. “You seem like you need to warm up.” 

“I can’t take this.”

“Why not?” 

“What is this, wool? It feels like cashmere,” Lucy says, rubbing the charcoal-colored sleeve between her fingers. “This kind of coat is worth more than my whole closet, and I’m going to get sweat and snow all over it.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. It was a gift anyways,” Anthony says breezily.

“Really?”

“Yeah, Kipps tailored it for me last winter.” 

Lucy makes a stranger, guttural noise in the back of her throat and flinches it away from Anthony as if he’s burned her. 

“That’s even _worse_! That’s a Quill Kipps original.”

“So?” Anthony says, more confused than offended.

Lucy scowls. “So, forget my closet. It’s probably worth more than _I am_.” 

Anthony laughs; he’s never met anyone as nobly stubborn as her. He shifts to face her and, in one fluid motion, unfurls the coat over her shoulders. It envelopes her.

“You mustn't compare yourself to an inanimate object,” Anthony says, buttoning the top of the jacket. “But if you must, I’d say Italian cashmere isn’t a bad place to start.”

He scoops up his iPad, gives her his signature megawatt smile, then leaves.

* * *

He’s not an idiot. He knows that his interactions could be misconstrued as flirting, but that’s simply not the case. Anthony Lockwood was raised to be a gentleman, and gentlemen give cold ladies their jackets. He couldn’t very much sit there comfortably warm while she iced over, could he? Lucy, in her cheap polyester shirts and paper-thin sweater. If he hadn’t done anything to help, Celia Lockwood would have thrown him into the Thames.

Besides, she’s a member of the press. It’s always smart to get on a reporter’s good side, especially when they show as much promise as Lucy Carlyle. She’s an excellent reporter. He would know; he’s kept up to date on every article she’s published since London Fashion Week. 

Yes, she’s attractive in an unassuming sort of way, with her dark doe eyes and the way she bites her tongue when she’s focusing on her writing, but that doesn’t mean anything. Just because she’s pretty (again, objectively) doesn’t mean Anthony regards her as anything but a fellow professional.

And if his heart beats a little faster when he sees her wearing his coat on the second day of the Zermatt photoshoot, it’s because his body needs to pump extra blood to warm his freezing limbs. And no other reason.

* * *

“I’m so glad you’re back from Switzerland,” Jessica calls out, gliding down the staircase to help Anthony with his luggage. “It was so _boring_ without you here.”

He smiles at his sister. “And I’m sure you suffered because no one did the dishes the entire time I was gone.”

Jessica rolls her eyes good-naturedly. In their retirement, the Lockwood parents had moved to a comfortable villa in the south of France, and Jessica and Anthony now had 35 Portland Row to themselves. It was usually just the two of them; they didn't employ any housekeepers, and seldom had people over to visit. 

Anthony follows Jessica up to his room, and the conversation turns to the topic of her upcoming film premiere. 

“I can’t believe it’s in a month,” Jessica says, smiling even as she helps Anthony unpack his clothing. “Flo is a genius. A goddamn genius. The way her mind works is absolutely fascinating, say nothing about her attention to detail.” 

“What’s she like in person? I read a lot of divisive stuff about her online,” Anthony says. 

“She’s rough around the edges, but not a bitch at all. And so what if she was? Some people just can’t handle a young female director like her,” Jessica says. Anthony recognizes that glint in her dark eyes; it’s the look they both have when they’ve set their mind on something. 

“Well, I’d love to meet her then,” Anthony says, and means it. 

“I’m so glad to hear that, because you’re coming to the premiere with me.” 

Anthony nods. He’d expected as much. It’s not unusual for family members to attend events like that together. It’s an easy way to generate good press, and Anthony genuinely likes supporting his sister’s acting career. 

The topic shifts to something else far less exciting as they start on Anthony’s second suitcase, and he’s just done matching his socks in pairs when he sees Jessica frowning at his clothing.

“What’s wrong?”

“Where’s that coat of yours? The great big Kipps one, with the dramatic collar?” Jessica asks, waving her hands around her neck to mimic the collar’s shape. “You were wearing it when you left.”

Oh. He had forgotten to ask for it back from Lucy—right after the shoot was done, the Fittes team had packed up and left, and only Anthony had stayed another night. He hadn’t gotten to talk to her in the rush, and it had completely slipped his mind until now.

“I lent it to—to a staff member,” Anthony explains. He’s not sure why he doesn’t just say Lucy’s name, because Jessica knows of her by now, but it feels more comfortable keeping her anonymous. “She didn’t have anything warm enough to wear, so I let her borrow it, and I just forgot.”

Jessica gives him an odd expression: exasperation mixed with pride. “Well, it was very nice of you to be so chivalrous, but you do have to get it back. You don’t know how some people can be with our stuff—be careful it’s not listed on Ebay or burnt in a public offering or something.”

Anthony nods. Jessica’s right. He doesn’t know Lucy well after all, and lending her his jacket is already pushing the boundaries of professionalism. Letting her keep it would only make things weird. He mustn't let her think it anything more than kindness, because it wasn’t. Anthony needs to get his coat back. 

Besides, Kipps would kill him if he found out that Anthony let one of his creations get all sweaty.

* * *

**_OMG! HAS ANTHONY LOCKWOOD LOCKED A BAE?_ **

_Anthony Lockwood, everyone’s new crush, might not be on the table anymore! Sure, the tall, dark, and handsome stud might not have publically spoken out about any relationships, but the Hambleton Times snapped some photos that might prove a secret girlfriend!_

_You might think that the photos above just show a normal, boring girl leaving a coffee shop, but we dug deeper. She’s not just dressed for the cold October weather, dear reader! That dark-grey jacket she’s wearing is a one-of-a-kind Quill Kipps original, recognizable by its iconic stiff collar and sapphire blue lining._

_And the owner of this one-of-a-kind coat? None other than our favorite London-born hottie! See attached photos of Lockwood wearing this coat at last year’s BAFTA afterparty, looking drop dead gorgeous next to sister Jessica Lockwood (whom we also love!)_

_Not much is known about this mystery girl, but she doesn’t seem to be anyone of note, and is simply identified as ‘Julie’ going by her coffee cup. Her dark brown bob and polka-dotted circle skirt might be a few seasons behind trend, but hey, no one says you can’t rock an ironic retro look!_

_Sure, we’re jealous, but if this girl can capture Lockwood’s heart, then there’s hope for us after all. Chins up, readers!_

* * *

“Anthony, you’re not actually seeing anyone, are you?” Holly asks. Anthony nearly chokes on his tea and coughs inelegantly. Holly is looking at him from across the table, neat in a blush-pink blouse and slim-cut trousers; her expression is deceptively innocent.

“You read that article, didn’t you?” Anthony says. 

“Well, yes, you know I love reading about your career, love. And this article was just so...interestingly named that I _had_ to read it.”

Holly looks at him expectantly, and Anthony sighs.

“Come off it, Holly, you know I’d tell you if I were dating anyone, but I’m not,” Anthony says, and Holly looks mollified.

They’re having tea together in Holly’s third-floor office, natural light pouring in from the wall-to-wall window. It had started off as a once-a-month business meeting when he had first started working with Quill&Munro, but now Anthony just dropped by to chat whenever he felt like it. Kipps was off somewhere else today, so it was just him and Holly.

“How’s wedding planning going?” Anthony asks.

“Oh, it couldn’t be better. We’ve decided on a March wedding, so check your mail for a save-the-date soon,” Holly says.

“March in England? Won’t it be rather cold?”

“Haven’t I told you? It must have slipped my mind—we’re having our wedding in Los Angeles!”

“Really?”

Holly beams as she refills his mug, the scent of Earl Grey filling the air as she enthuses. “Yes! I’m so excited. We’ll pay for everyone’s travel and hotel, and we’ve decided on this lovely estate just south of Malibu for the venue. I’ve already warned Quill to bring sunscreen or a hat; he’s my man of honor and he can’t very well show up pink.” 

Anthony’s content to let Holly gush more about wedding planning, but Holly’s PA runs in at that moment, looking rather haggard.

“I’m so sorry for interrupting, Miss Munro, but someone came to the front desk and is insisting on seeing Mr. Lockwood.” 

Holly frowns. “Henry, is a stubborn fan really worth notifying Anthony for?” 

“Um, I don't think she’s a fan...She has a press pass from Fittes Magazine, and she said she absolutely had to meet with you, Mr. Lockwood. Her name is,” Henry checks his iPad. “Lucy Carlyle?”

Holly turns toward Anthony, an eyebrow raised. “Your call.”

“Oh, well, I suppose you can let her up,” Anthony says, perplexed.

Henry slips out the door and is back within the minute, Lucy Carlyle fuming behind him. Her laptop case is slung over her shoulder, but it’s the familiar-looking jacket peeking out of the Tesco bag in her hand that catches Anthony’s eye. Holly regards Lucy with some recognition, looks at the bag, and then to Anthony’s baffled expression. He can see Holly begin to piece the story together.

“Nice to see you again, Miss Carlyle. Henry, I believe you said you wanted to show me something on the fourth floor?” Holly says, standing up from her chair. She crosses the room swiftly and practically drags her PA out with her. The door closes with a slick click.

Lucy shoves the Tesco bag at Anthony, who catches it with a slight _oomph_. 

“I’ve been trying to return this to you for days. You are _so hard_ to keep track of. And for the record, that picture the Hambleton took of me at the coffee shop—I was only wearing it because that day was especially windy. Make no mistake, I just want this coat out of my hands,” Lucy rants. Her brows are furrowed, and Anthony notes that her Northern accent seems to be getting stronger. He opens his mouth to speak, but Lucy isn’t done. 

“I want to be clear that that article in the Hambleton is _unacceptable_ , and if you had anything to do with it, you can consider all future articles from me gone. It was unbelievable. Fucking unbelieveable. That ‘magazine’ is nothing more than printed shit,” Lucy says, all in one breath. 

Anthony realizes he’s been holding his mug this whole time and sets it down, trying to process everything Lucy’s say-yelling at him. He gives her his most calming smile.

“I understand why that article upset you, and I can assure you I had nothing to do with it. Truth be told, I wasn’t happy to read it either, but it’s just a gossip rag. People will forget all about it within the month,” Anthony says. 

“Maybe you’re used to this kind of thing, but the rest of us in the lower echelon don’t have the privilege of using our RP accent to charm everyone into liking us. For you, it’s just another meaningless tabloid piece, but it nearly cost me my _job_.”

“What?”

Lucy fixes him with a glare, her eyes blazing. “When my editor saw me on the front page of Hambleton, she was pissed. You know how it would look if reporter praising a model turned out to be their significant other? It’d be beyond conflict of interest. We have to file official documents if we start dating other members of the industry. Kat Godwin’s in my department; why do you think she never writes about Quill&Munro?”

“Lucy, I’m so sorry about the misunderstanding. I can clarify that the article is false on my Twitter, if that would help,” Anthony says. 

She huffs and looks off to the side, but she seems appeased. Now that her anger’s been let out, Lucy seems unsure of what to do with herself. She looks out of place in Holly’s office, a brush of brown and tan against the millennial pink decor, shuffling her scuffy brogues against the floor. Anthony gestures at the empty seat across from his.

“Why don’t you stay and give me the final approval for whatever I tweet?” Anthony asks, pulling out his phone. After a beat, Lucy sits down, perched on the edge of the chair as if to dart off at any moment. He angles himself so she can see his screen.

“How about I post a screencap of the article and just say ‘LOL’?” He asks. Lucy frowns at him.

“Then people will think you’re being coy.”

Anthony shrugs; she has a point. “Okay, how about ‘I’m not dating Lucy Carlyle, but she is a great writer!’, and I’ll @ your account.”

“No, the Hambleton didn’t get my name right, and I want to keep it that way,” Lucy says. “But thank you for saying that I’m a great writer.” 

Her second comment is said almost shyly. Anthony decides not to draw attention to it and deletes his drafted tweet.

“Why’d they think you were Julie anyways?”

“The barista must've gotten my name wrong.”

“Ah, what a pity. Lucy’s not hard to spell to begin with.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Anthony catches the sliver of a smile on Lucy’s face, but she ducks her head before he can look over and be sure.

“Just write something brief that can’t be misinterpreted. Something like ‘Hambleton is lying, I’m not dating anyone.’ Or, um, unless you are dating someone, so maybe just ‘I’m not dating this woman.’ You know, straight to the point,” Lucy says, speaking more to a stray thread on her skirt than to Anthony. 

“Alright,” Anthony says. He bites back the instinct to reassure her that he is, indeed, single. She is a journalist after all, and he doesn’t need another relationship rumor cropping up. Besides, there’s no reason to tell her.

“I didn’t know how to clean the coat, so it might still smell gross” Lucy blurts out. “I’m sorry, I was scared I would damage it.” 

Anthony holds a sleeve of the coat up to his nose. It doesn’t smell gross at all; there’s a faint note of something warm and spicy like mulled wine, but besides that, it just smells like wool. He smiles at Lucy. 

“You needn’t worry about that. I’ll just give it to Kipps. He’ll clean it for me; that, or he’ll beat me to death with it when he finds out I almost lost it.”

“Right,” Lucy says, a corner of her mouth twitching. “Well, I’m sure you’re busy, and I have to go back to work, so…”

“Of course. I’m glad we could get this sorted out,” Anthony says, standing up as she does. Unsure of what to do with himself, Anthony shakes her hand.

Holly comes in at that very moment, her timing impeccable as always. She smiles at Lucy.

“Are you leaving now, Miss Carlyle?” Holly asks. The height difference between the two women is impressive; Holly, still petite in her heels, is a good head shorter than Lucy, but her presence more than makes up for it.

Lucy nods.

“Oh, well I do hope I get to talk to you properly again some day. I believe you’ll be at The Fashion Awards?” Holly says, reaching out and grasping Lucy’s hands.

“Yes, I’ll be there. See you then,” Lucy says, awkwardly bowing her head towards Holly. Lucy blinks, flustered, and leaves without another word.

As soon as Lucy’s footsteps recede, Holly looks at Anthony expectantly.

“What was that all about?”

* * *

**eras @skimbleshaanks · 6h**

[ www.hambletontimes.co.uk/omg-lockwood ](http://www.hambletontimes.co.uk/omg-lockwood) this better be a joke lmao, there’s no way in hell he’s with some boring bitch wearing forever 21 sneakers 

**🌸🌸STAN BTS🌸🌸 @beauwoo· 5h**

Oh my Gosh if Anthony is really dating this girl that’s so cute! Real Lockwood fans support him no matter what 🙄 he drinks fuckin respect women juice okay?? #shipit #otp #mrsjulielockwood

**Sarah Kajuna @iluvRaoul· 5h**

_Replying to @beauwoo_

SAME omg I SHIP IT… @ajlockwood give 👏us👏the👏relationship👏tea!!!

**Anthony Lockwood @ajlockwood✔️** **· 5h**

The rumours are false! sorry @hambletontimes, still a bachelor atm! #singleandreadyforpringles

* * *

**@ajlockwood✔️ started following @lucycwrites**

**@lucycwrites started following @ajlockwood✔️**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whewww, this chapter was sitting untouched for a good two weeks until Dumby motivated me and I somehow wrote 3k+ words in 12 hours. Dumby is powerful. Next chapter might be a while since uni starts in a week. 
> 
> Chapter notes:  
> \- Brunello Cucinelli is an Italian luxury fashion brand. Here's an example of a [men's sweater](https://images.lastcall.com/ca/2/product_assets/N/4/V/E/N/LCN4VEN_mu.jpg) similar to what Anthony was wearing; they run in the $1-2k prince range each.  
> \- 'PA' is shorthand for personal assistant. They help with management, busywork, and generally keep their boss' life together.  
> \- Hermès is a French high fashion brand. Coats typically run $3k+.   
> \- The Birkin bag is a line of bags from Hermès. They are usually $10-20k each, and can go up to $50k. [These are similar to the one Anthony had](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/9b/f2/0a/9bf20a84fb3fd74b64784339daaf5729.jpg)  
> \- The soup Anthony eats is Gerstensuppe, a thick Swiss barley soup.  
> \- Cashmere is fancy wool, and Italian Cashmere is extra fancy wool. Anthony's bougie y'all.  
> \- Anthony and Jessica have RP (received pronunciation) accents, Quill and George have estuary accents, Holly switches between the two, and Lucy is very Northern.  
> \- Anthony's coat is tailor-made by Kipps, and a similar coat would be this coat from Michael Andrews.  
> .  
> \- Holly's outfit is this ensemble, from Serbian fashion house ROKSANDA.  
> .
> 
> Whew! That's all the notes for this chapter. Let me know if anything is confusing, or if the notes help at all. Thank you for reading this chapter, and please leave a comment if you liked it! They always make my day. <3


	3. Leicester Square

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please send all your adoration to @dumbledoreslingerie. Not only is she the only one who keeps my feeble grasp on the English language together, but she's also the one who receives all of my strange Quill Kipps thirst.

“Do I have lipstick on my teeth?”

Anthony, holding his phone’s screen up to act as a mirror, sighs. “No, your teeth are fine.” 

Jessica ignores him, fussing over her carnation-pink lipstick. It’s strange to see his normally unflappable sister be so fidgety; if Anthony didn’t know how much this night meant to her, he would have teased her about it. Instead, he bites his tongue and looks out the tinted windows of the car. 

It’s only six PM, but he’s not surprised to see that it’s already dark. It’s mid-November in London after all. He can see a long line of eclectically dressed people queued up along the side of a large glossy building, some figures wearing heavy winter clothing, others wearing stuffy formal wear. Anthony is in the latter category tonight.

“I think we’re on Coventry Street now,” Anthony says. Jessica lets out a strange, guttural sound that sounds a bit like gargling, and frantically brushes nonexistent flyaways from her face. The driver, bless her, doesn’t react. 

They pull up at the entrance of the building, where the crowd is thickest, where there are several people in black uniforms and earpieces serving as security. One of the black-uniformed men checks their license plate and waves them forward.

Anthony tucks his phone into his suit’s interior pocket and punches Jessica encouragingly on the shoulder. “You don’t need to worry,” he says. “You’ll be great.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Jessica says. 

The car stops. 

The car door is opened.

Jessica steels herself, steps out, and is greeted by uproarious cheers.

“Well, I don’t believe my eyes! Look who just pulled up—the leading lady of ‘Ghost Story’ herself, Jessica Lockwood. And who’s in the car with her? None other than supermodel Anthony Lockwood—her brother, of course.”

Anthony makes his way around the car and catches up to his sister, who’s already been posing for the camera. All visible signs of her nervousness are gone; she smiles at some journalists, flips her hair over her bare shoulder in a flattering way, and waves at a few fans who call her name. Anthony follows her lead; he’s not really experienced on red carpets. A movie premiere has so much kinetic energy, so many people calling for attention at once. Anthony puts on the signature Lockwood smile and gives the camera his best angles (which are all of them, but who’s counting?)

The walk down the red carpet is slow. It’s not like a runway where you walk, stop, and then walk back. Every few feet, the Lockwood siblings are stopped by people; designers, photographers, journalists, fans. It’s not too terrible; Anthony rather starts enjoying it. He’s never had so many people ask him for selfies at once.

“Jessica Lockwood, Anthony Lockwood, can Fittes have a few words with you two?” 

Anthony’s gaze snaps over at the mention of Fittes magazine, and is somehow both shocked and not at all surprised to see Lucy Carlyle. She’s on their side of the velvet rope, wearing the same camel coat buttoned up over a long skirt, a press pass hanging from a lanyard on her neck. Next to her is her photographer, a dark-skinned woman Anthony doesn’t recognize. Jessica struts over to the Fittes pair, so Anthony follows.

“Lucy!” He says. “Where’s George Cubbins?”

It’s definitely not what Lucy expected him to say; the corners of her mouth quirk upwards before smoothing themselves back into a neutral expression. “He’s preoccupied tonight, but you’ll probably see him later.”

She turns her attention to Jessica. “Hi Jessica, I’m Lucy Carlyle from Fittes. Might I ask who you’re wearing tonight?”

“Oh, Lucy Carlyle! Yes, I’m familiar with your work. How fantastic it is to finally meet you,” Jessica says. She looks genuinely thrilled. “I’m wearing Rasario. As you know, I play the titular Victorian ghost in ‘Ghost Story’, and I was inspired by my character to go for a more gothic look tonight.” 

She smiles, standing up straight. Jessica is around 178 centimeters tall, and even taller in the heeled boots she’s wearing tonight. The photographer has to back up a little to fit all of her lithe form in frame.

“And of course, I coordinated with Anthony,” Jessica says. “He’s wearing Dolce & Gabbana. As you know, Rasario doesn’t do menswear.”

They’re both wearing black velvet; Jessica in an off-shoulder gown with puffed sleeves and a dangerously high leg slit, Anthony in a tuxedo with gold accents. Lucy takes down notes, nodding as Jessica recites the makeup products she’s using. Obviously Lucy’s attention would be on Jessica. It is her film premiere after all. Anthony stands off to the side, a little unsure of what to do with himself.

Thankfully, Jessica’s interview with Lucy ends when the cast and crew of the movie is called for a group photo near the end of the carpet. Anthony’s led to a woman with straw-blonde hair and dark eyebrows. She has a very severe expression that he’s not sure is a result of him or just how her natural face looks, but she shakes his hand nevertheless.

“Anthony, this is Flo Bones. The director,” Jessica adds.

Flo’s younger than Anthony thought she would be. She looks around Anthony’s age, maybe slightly older, but the way she carries herself makes her seem austere and senior.

“Can you believe the bullshit they make us wear for these events?” Flo gripes, gesturing down at her outfit: an off-white jumpsuit with a loosely cinched waist. It looks perfectly normal to Anthony. If anything, Flo’s underdressed. 

“Don’t be silly, Flo, you look lovely,” Jessica says.

“I look like one of those idiotic, froofy models,” Flo grumbles. Her eyes fall on Anthony. “Anthony Lockwood...what do you do again?”

“I’m, ah, a supermodel,” he says. 

The air is suddenly very uncomfortable.

Jessica looks like she’s trying not to laugh, Flo mutters something under her breath that might be an apology, and Anthony decides that he needs to be the bigger man and pretend like nothing happened.

“I’m rather excited to meet you, Flo. I loved your last movie—’Bridgeway Murders’ more than deserved its standing ovation at the Cannes,” Anthony says. Flo thanks him; the awkwardness falls away, but Flo is quickly called over by somebody else and leaves with a short farewell.

“She’s...exactly how you described,” Anthony says to Jessica, staring after Flo’s departing form. Jessica shrugs.

“I mean, you should know by now I’m always right.” 

They continue down the carpet until, finally, they reach the entrance of the theatre. Anthony hangs back and looks over the ensembled cast and crew; standing next to Flo Bones is a familiar blond head—George. For a second, Anthony wonders what he’s doing up there, but his question is quickly answered when he sees the bespeckled man link arms with Flo as they head into the theatre. Ah, so that’s what Lucy had meant when she said the photographer was “preoccupied.”

Eventually, they all file into the movie theatre—but the term _movie theatre_ seems like an understatement compared to how grand the complex really is. The ODEON cinema seats up to 800 people, and the crowd seems to be pushing that number; Anthony watches as a flock of ushers guide people to their seats. He and Jessica are led to the Royal Box, avoiding the crowd and settling into their comfortable seats. The room settles down when Flo slinks up to the front, microphone in hand.

“Thank you for joining me tonight for the premiere of ‘Ghost Story,’” Flo says, holding the microphone a little too close to her mouth. “But maybe it’s you who should be thanking me for the movie you’re about to see. For free. Anyways, I made this movie, and it’s good. There are actors in it who are also good, because I’m not some idiot who hires bad actors. Enjoy it. Or don’t, whatever. It’s your prerogative.”

There’s a round of applause. Most people seem amused by Flo’s speech, not offended.

The refreshments are free, but Anthony declines the concession box when it’s offered to him, mindful of his diet. Meanwhile, Flo is ripping into a pack of Red Vines with frightening enthusiasm.

The curtain rises (because the ODEON is the kind of old-timey movie theatre that still has curtains), and the film begins.

It’s set in modern-day London, but Jessica plays a Victorian-era ghost who haunts the protagonist's apartment. Jessica practically melts into her character, her movements and tone morphing her into an entirely different person. It’s more of a mystery-drama film than a horror, but there are still some scenes that make Anthony flinch in his seat, and some dry jokes that make the entire crowd laugh. The entire movie turns out to be an extended metaphor for generational divide, but it makes its point without seeming preachy. After one hundred and twenty minutes, the credits roll and the entire audience stands up in a standing ovation.

It’s a great movie.

* * *

**Rum tum cucumber @n1bbl3t· 5m**

hol y sh*t i just finished #GHOSTSTORY and it was so good omg,,,you guys should totally get tickets! 

**Echo @matsumoto2· 3m**

So excited to have attended the premiere for #GHOSTSTORY. @fbones is a genius! Headed to the afterparty now!

**Jim beasto @st4rw4rs· 2m**

@fbones’ ghost story was pretty good...wish it didn’t have so much forced diversity tho. why were all the leads girls? and where were the white ppl? 🙄

**henry Cavill’s sock @29248bbc· 2m**

_Replying to @st4rw4rs_

hey shut up and die challenge. 

**Skitty @sktty_737· 1m**

I heard 🧡Quill Kipps🧡 is attending the #GHOSTSTORY after party!! Ugh he’s such a BABE.

* * *

Anthony’s not sure that afterparties are usually this crowded, or this loud, but this one certainly is both. He and Jessica have to squeeze through groups of people just to get to a refreshment table, hands reaching out and grabbing Jessica to stop and compliment her. When they finally get to the hor d'evours, Anthony feels rather windened. 

“I shouldn’t have been so nervous,” Jessica says, piling her plate high with chocolate tarts. “I was really quite good afterall.” 

“Between you and Flo, you two might use up all the ego in the country,” Anthony remarks. Jessica kicks his ankle.

“Ow!”

“I think you mean that you _really_ _admire my_ _confidence_ and that you’re _so proud of me_ ,” Jessica says.

“Wow, Jessica, I really admire your confidence and I’m so proud of you,” Anthony deadpans. Jessica rolls her eyes, and they both start laughing.

“You should never be an actor, Tony,” she says fondly.

Jessica seems content with her tarts, but Anthony tries a little bit of everything (everything not dangerously unhealthy, that is). They’re in the middle of small talk when he hears a familiar voice.

“Hey, Lockwood!”

Both he and Jessica turn around to see Quill Kipps clutching a lowball glass filled with ice and something amber-colored. He makes his way over to the siblings, the designer dressed casually in a linen shirt and black trousers. Kipps opens his mouth to say something to Anthony, but then sees Jessica and furrows his brows.

“There are two of you?” Kipps asks, grey eyes flitting between Anthony and Jessica. 

“Jessica Lockwood, pleased to make your acquaintance. You might know me from modeling with Burberry, or from the movie you saw earlier tonight,” Jessica says, holding out her hand for Kipps to shake. Kipps takes it.

“You’re very—tall,” Kipps says, seemingly lost for words for the first time since Anthony’s known him. 

“Yes, it runs in the family,” Jessica says breezily. The Lockwoods are all long, pale,and angular; Jessica stands a good half-head taller than Kipps.

“Kipps, this is my sister Jessica. Jessica, this is Quill Kipps, of Quill&Munro,” Anthony says, waving a hand towards the designer.

“I’ve heard so many stories about you,” Jessica says.

“Good things?” Kipps asks dryly.

“Well, they’re mostly from Anthony, so no, not really,” Jessica says. “But your work is beautiful. I’m always so jealous to see Anthony wear your creations on the runway. It almost makes me want to go back to modelling.”

Kipps snorts in a rather unflattering manner. “God, how I’d rather work with you than Lockwo—Anthony. He never appreciates the shit I make.”

“Excuse me, I do nothing but admire your handiwork with the utmost respect,” Anthony says. Kipps glares at him.

“Holly told me about you losing that coat in Switzerland.” 

“Touché.”

“Yes, he’s very careless with his things,” Jessica says. “When he was seven, our father gave him a pair of binoculars.”

Anthony feels himself flushing. If this is the story he thinks she’s telling...

“So, our dear Tony wanted to see what the inside of a human mouth looked like, and it just so happened that his primary school teacher let him bring binoculars to school that day—”

“Kipps doesn’t want to hear this story, does he?” Anthony says nervously.

“Shut up, Lockwood,” Kipps says, not even looking at him. “Go on?”

“Jess, I think someone is calling you—”

Jessica sighs and gingerly puts a hand on Kipps’ bicep. “I don’t think my dear brother wants me to tell this story. Why don’t you accompany me to the bar, and I’ll see if I can find the conclusion at the bottom of an Old Fashioned?” 

Anthony can only watch in dismay as his sister leaves with Kipps, feeling betrayed by them both. There’s a wealth of his embarrassing stories for the two of them to share, and he’s helpless to stop them. He sits down on a softbench and miserably finishes off several celery sticks, feeling very sorry for himself.

He hears someone sit down on the bench next to him, and a familiar pair of brogues entire his line of sight.

“It’s nice to see someone else upset at this party,” Lucy says, staring at her hands. “I didn’t think anyone actually ate the celery sticks.”

Anthony waves a stick at her. “They’re a great source of antioxidants,” he says, and then stops once he gets a proper look at Lucy. She’s hunched over, arms wrapped around her body like she’s trying to hug herself; her press pass is peeking out of her coat’s pocket, and her fringe obscures her eyes.

“Are you alright, Lucy?” Anthony asks. She angles her head away from him, shoulders tense.

“No. But why would it matter to you?” She asks bitterly. 

“I did promise I’d help you adjust to parties, and our last lesson was interrupted. Besides, misery loves company, and I’m already miserable,” Anthony says. Lucy turns to him. Her eyes are red from crying.

“I heard some asshole point me out to her friends,” Lucy mutters. “She asked who let me in, dressed like this? Said I looked like if someone threw a coat over a Victorian street wench. And then she saw my press badge, and immediately was _so sorry_ , babbling about how I was very _shabby chic_.’”

Lucy balls her hands into fists. “I knew there was a reason I hated these kinds of parties. People make all sorts of snap judgements about me. I’m just a journalist. I don’t belong here.”

Anthony thinks about putting a hand on her shoulder to comfort her, but he thinks better of it and realizes that him suddenly touching her would most likely make her more worried. Instead, he angles his body towards her 

“You absolutely belong here, Lucy,” Anthony says. She’s silent for another minute to the point where Anthony wonders if she perhaps didn’t hear him before she speaks again.

“You know, you’re the only person I’ve interviewed who calls me Lucy,” she says, voice muffled by her sleeves.

“Oh,” Anthony says. He hadn’t realized he even did so. “I’m sorry, if that seemed unprofessional—”

“No. It’s fine,” Lucy says softly. “I just—My work speaks for itself, even if people don’t realize it yet.”

Anthony’s not really sure how to respond to that beyond nodding in agreement. She seems to be getting better, though; she rubs furiously at her eyes with her knuckles and straightens up. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, why do you wear similar outfits so often? I’ve noticed that you favor that camel coat and shoes,” Anthon says, changing the subject.

He panics for a second—is it weird that he just admitted to knowing her clothing so well?—but quickly reassures himself that _of course_ he remembers fashion. It’s part of his job, after all, and therefore not weird.

Lucy frowns down at her outfit, but she seems more peeved than offended. 

“It’s not like what someone wears actually matters, anyways” Lucy shrugs. “I might not have grown up with designer labels, but it’s just clothing in the end.”

Anthony raises an eyebrow. “And you say this as a _fashion_ _journalist_?”

“I thought there would be more artistry, but it’s just all so fake,” Lucy says. “Everyone curates their identity to their clothing, or suppresses parts of their lives just to get a good story about them online. Why can’t their work just speak for themselves?”

“You can’t think of fashion as a bandage like that,” Anthony says, crossing one ankle over the other and leaning back. “It _is_ art. At its best, it’s an extension of your personality. You find the _perfect_ outfit; everything, from the colors, the stitching, the fabric...It all comes together harmoniously.”

Lucy frowns. “That’s the kind of philosophy only rich people can afford.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean, I don’t go into Primark and look for _harmony_. I go straight to the sales bin. And when I was younger, I just wore whatever my sisters grew out of,” Lucy says. “I doubt you were the kind of child who grew up on hand-me-downs.”

“Well, I only have an older sister, so...” Anthony says, feeling oddly guilty.

“But your family never had money issues,” Lucy says bluntly. “And even though I get a wardrobe budget from Fittes, I’d much rather spend the money on something useful.”

“You get a wardrobe budget?” Anthony asks.

“Yes, they’ve given me an additional stipend every month, but I can only spend it on clothing,” Lucy frowns. “It’s kind of ridiculous. All I bought were these socks.”

She kicks up her leg and shows Anthony her ankle, where there is indeed a grey sock.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how much is the Fittes clothing stipend?” Anthony asks. Lucy taps something onto her phone and shows the screen to Anthony, whose eyes widen. 

“Wow. That is a lot of zeros,” Anthony says. 

Lucy tucks her phone back into her pocket. “It’s ridiculous. And George gives me his budget too, because he doesn’t want the responsibility.”

She stares pointedly across the room to where George seems to be eating a full sheet cake, and sighs.

“He’s never bothered about _his_ appearance. I bet it’s because he’s already established in the industry,” Lucy says. “I bet me being a woman has something to do with it too. But fashion’s not made for me. I just observe, I shouldn’t engage.”

“That’s ridiculous! Finding your style is how you become what you’re supposed to be. You show you take yourself seriously when you take your appearance seriously, ” Anthony says, waving around his celery stick to emphasize his points.

Lucy snorts, an unladylike sound that’s still somehow adorable. “Convincing argument, but I wouldn’t even know where to start. Until I moved to London, my sister bought all my clothes for me.”

“Ah, older sisters are tragically bossy. It might come as a surprise, but it wasn’t my idea to dress in matching black velvet tonight,” Anthony says, taking out his phone. He unlocks it and types something quickly onto the screen as Lucy watches.

“I should really mingle around, but thank you for making the evening worthwhile,” Anthony says, standing up to his full height and smoothing down the front of his suit. “But, ah, if you ever need fashion advice…” He makes a telephone hand gesture and mouths _call me_ before slinking off to find his sister, leaving a confused Lucy behind him.

She’s a charming girl, really, but Anthony shouldn’t spend his entire night next to her, or people would start getting the wrong idea. Even worse, maybe _she_ ’d get the wrong idea. There are so many interesting industry leaders at the party tonight, and it would be a tragedy if he spent the entire night just talking to one person. There’s nothing quite as useful as networking.

Which is precisely why he sent Lucy his number over Twitter DM.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thanks again for reading this new chapter. I hope you liked it! Again, next chapter might take a while to come out because of university, but it will come in its own time. All your kind comments last chapter really inspired me, so thank you so much. <3
> 
> Chapter notes:  
> \- Odeon Leicester Square: A cinema with the largest screen in the UK. Many blockbuster movies such as Harry Potter and Dunkirk have premiered here. It's located on Conventry Street.  
> \- Velvet rope: At red-carpet events, celebrities and media/fans are usually separated by a velvet rope, with only high-ranking reporters allowed on the same side as the stars. It's commonly used as a metaphor for the divide between celebrities and civilians.  
> \- Cannes: The Cannes Film Festival is an annual film festival where films are premiered and judged. It's a pretty big star-making event, hence why Flo's such a big name despite being so young.  
> \- Burberry is a British luxury fashion house, most well known for its plaid and trench coats. While famous, it's often stereotyped as being relatively boring and safe in terms of style, hence why Jessica would want to work with a more avant-garde designer like Kipps.  
> \- At the premiere, Jessica's wearing Rasario, a Russian fashion house. (And like she mentions, they only design womenswear.)  
>   
> \- Anthony's wearing a tux from the Italian Dolce & Gabbana.  
>   
> \- Flo's (reluctantly) wearing Gucci.  
>   
> \- Aaaand Quill's wearing a generic linen shirt. I think despite being a well-off designer, Quill wouldn't dress flashily anytime he doesn't have to. He very much shares Lucy's philosophy on wasteful spending, so he's usually dressed in his canon conservative greys and blacks. I think this sums up the ethos of this fic the best: it's not just an excuse to write our beloved characters in pretty outfits, but also an exploration of different perspectives on the industry. 
> 
> That's all the notes for this chapter. As always, if you have any questions, let me know. Thank you for reading this chapter, and please leave a comment if you liked it! Much love. <3


	4. San Francisco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to my beautiful, gorgeous, amazingly hot beta reader @dumbledoreslingerie.  
> Also, I'd like to give a shout-out to @achillesangst for drawing [ some awesome fanart of this AU!](https://achillesangst.tumblr.com/tagged/Lockwood-and-Co)

The holiday season in San Francisco is pleasantly mild, the fairy lights shining through the heavy fog almost magical. The buildings on Maiden Lane are mismatched, some with exposed brick and others with neat stucco exteriors. The street is closed to cars during the daytime, which makes it a uniquely quiet part of the city. The Christmas decorations in Union Square had been eye-catching (the 14 meter tall Christmas tree was hard to miss), but the decorations in this part of the city are subtler. The Chanel store, for example, has a singular snow globe in its window display.

Bundled up and rather cosy, Anthony’s enjoying his stroll down the street. It’s not his first time in San Francisco, but he’s never been here during the winter. Movement down the road catches his eye.

There, dressed in an eggshell blue coat, is Holly Munro. She’s beaming at him and waving furiously enough that Anthony’s afraid the petite woman will topple over. As he approaches, Anthony can make out a shock of orange in a sea of black skulking behind her: Kipps.

“Evening,” Anthony says cheerfully, giving Holly a hug, which she eagerly returns, tilting her head up to give him a kiss on the cheek. Anthony then turns to Kipps, who groans dramatically but accepts Anthony’s embrace anyways.

“Good evening! I’m so glad you could make it before the opening,” Holly says. “Look, isn’t it perfect?”

She gestures at the brick building they’re standing in front of. It’s six stories high, but all attention is drawn to the first level. There are tall windows that encompass nearly the entire entrance and serve as a dramatic shop display. The parts of wall that aren’t window are painted a sleek slate blue. Over the glass French doors are the words ‘Quill&Munro” in black.

“Very modern,” Anthony compliments, walking up to the windows and examining the display. “It’s fantastically on-brand. Congratulations, you two.”

The fashion house Quill&Munro is very popular, but still new. While several stores have opened across Europe since it first opened five years ago, this one in San Francisco is the first to open across the Atlantic. Seeing the store on the same street as Chanel and Gucci gives Anthony a sudden rush of pride.

Holly tuts. “What are we doing out here in the cold? Anthony, come, we have to show you the inside!” Like a mother hen, Holly herds the men through the front doors and into the store proper. Kipps unfurls his scarf and drapes it over the couch in the middle of the room.

“That side is for menswear, that one for women,” Kipps says, tilting his head to indicate. “Our display is minimal. No use having a bunch of things clutter the store. There are changing rooms back there, and the accessories display is right here.”

“When the store’s open, we’ll have someone staff it, of course,” Holly says. She plucks Kipps’ scarf off the couch and folds it neatly, the action so fluid that it seems almost like second nature.

“I can’t wait for the grand opening, then,” Anthony says. The pair lead Anthony to the back of the store, where there’s an elevator. They take it up two levels, where their offices are located, and sit together around a coffee table; Kipps pulls out a bottle of gin out of seemingly nowhere and pours three glasses.

“Alcohol at nine PM on a Tuesday?” Anthony teases, but he tastes his anyways. It’s smooth and warm going down his throat, like he’s swallowed the heat of a fire. 

“It’s a celebration,” Holly says. She daintily settles down on the seat across from Anthony and takes a neat sip of her own drink. Kipps has already finished his, and is fiddling with a small paper box in his hands—a pack of chewing gum. He catches Anthony staring at him and flushes.

“It’s either this, or cigarettes,” Kipps says, unwrapping a stick. “And if I start smoking again, Holly will kill me before my lungs do.”

“I would not!” Holly says, indignant. “I would just be very disappointed in you.” 

Kipps and Anthony exchange a look; from prior experience, they both know that disappointment from Holly is worse than any form of physical pain. When Anthony had first met Kipps four years ago, the older man had smoked regularly, mostly to regulate his stress. Anthony knew Kipps had stopped shortly after they met; he knew Holly had something to do with that, but never inquired about the details.

Staring at Kipps, Anthony suddenly remembers something that makes him jolt up in his seat.

“Don’t date my sister,” Anthony says. Kipps, mid popping the gum into his mouth, nearly chokes on it. 

“His sister?” Holly asks, turning curiously to a hacking Kipps. “I thought you were seeing that artist from Prada. What was his name again?”

Kipps recovers enough to breathe normally, but he’s turning a curious shade of purple. “Alexander. We went out a few times, but he turned out to be a flat earther.”

“What a shame,” Holly sighs. “He was very polite.”

“Back on topic—Kipps, _promise_ me you won’t date my sister,” Anthony says. His dark eyes are wide, staring pleadingly at Kipps.

“I,” Kipps says, taking a contemplative look at Anthony’s face. “Will do no such thing.” 

Anthony groans and falls back against the couch, while Holly looks thrilled.

“You’ve finally met Jessica, then, have you?” Holly asks. “I understand _completely_. She’s gorgeous.” 

Holly blushes a pleasant raspberry pink and lowers her voice like she’s sharing a secret. “I mean, before I started dating Kat, I used to save all photos of Jessica and—”

“ _No_ ,” Anthony says, uncharacteristically flustered. “Why are you revealing this with me present?”

“You don’t own your sister, Anthony,” Holly says sagely, as if she hadn’t just ruined Anthony’s evening (and possibly life.) “She’s a very lovely, very talented adult woman with her own life. If she and Quill are interested in each other, then you should be happy for them!”

“I will do no such thing,” Anthony says. “You don’t get to criticize me until you’ve lived with the possibility of Kipps as your brother-in-law.” 

The other man scoffs. “You’re too presumptuous, Lockwood. All we’ve done is have one perfectly civil conversation. I haven’t _eloped_ with your sister.”

Kipps snaps the gum in his mouth. “Yet, anyways.”

He and Holly laugh (well, Holly laughs; Kipps’ laugh is more like a sharp bark) as Anthony pouts. Despite their banter, Anthony honestly likes Kipps. It had taken time for the two men to warm up to each other, but their bickering was how they expressed affection. Still, the idea of Kipps flirting with Jessica makes Anthony inexplicably woozy.

“Is Kat arriving soon?” Anthony asks. Holly nods, her face glowing at the mention of her fiance.

“Yes, her flight is landing tomorrow morning. It was hard for her to take time off, but she absolutely insisted on being here for me,” Holly gushes. “I already feel like I’ve been married to her for years, you surely don’t want to hear me talk about Kat again—Anthony, your romance must be so much more interesting!”

Smoothly as ever, Holly’s redirected the conversation back to Anthony’s personal life. Anthony’s heard people wonder how Holly and Kipps get along so well; while their shared love for gossip isn’t the only reason, it sure helps. 

“We already had this conversation, Hols,” Anthony says. “I’m not interested in anyone at the moment.” 

“Are you sure? I just so happened to find the most curious article in the Hambleton a week ago.” 

“Oh yes, I’m sure you ‘just so happened to find it,’” Anthony sighs, glaring at Kipps. The ginger man grins, teeth-bared, not even pretending to be innocent.

“Well, you know how important it is to support traditional media. And if I recall from Fashion Week, _someone_ found the articles in the Hambleton Times quite amusing. I disagreed at the moment, but I certainly see your point now,” Kipps says sardonically. 

“You’ve seriously held onto that grudge for four months?” Anthony asks. Groaning, he holds out his hand for the newspaper.

**_PRETTY WHEN YOU CRY: THE INFAMOUS LOCKWOOD HEARTBREAKERS._ **

_Any red-blooded Englishman (or woman!) would surely die for a chance to see the lovely Lockwood siblings up close. When I attended the London premiere of Flo Bones’ new movie ‘Ghost Story’ (to read more about Bones’ secret socialist agenda see PAGE 4), I was lucky enough to see them both up close._

_Jessica Lockwood, 28, is long and slinky, with black eyes and hair that call to the family’s Oriental heritage._

“‘Oriental’,” Anthony says out loud, shuddering. “What year is this again?” 

_Although tragically flat-chested and flat-bummed, the young lady Lockwood has legendary legs. Her pristine reputation might not be as squeaky clean as we once thought!_

_“I know it as a fact that Jessica is a serial maneater,” our unknown source informed me over a cuppa. “At any given time, she has a string of muscular men wrapped around her finger. It’s practically a harem!”_

_Her brother, the charmingly handsome Anthony Lockwood, might be following in her footsteps. Our witness reports seeing Lockwood cuddled up to a crying girl at the premiere after party._

_“I wasn’t close enough to see her face, but I have no doubt it was one of Anthony’s ladies. If the crying was any indication, I’d guess he just dumped her. She seemed drunk.”_

_Well, given Anthony’s rather busy schedule, we wouldn’t be surprised if the stud had a girl in every major city! Fingers crossed he has an open position!_

“My my, Anthony,” Kipps says, insufferably smug. “A girl in every city! And we haven’t heard a word of it.”

“Do you also believe that my sister has a harem of muscular men somewhere? Because she’d hardly extend an invitation to you,” Anthony says sardonically. “Not a word of this article is true.”

“Of course not, love. But the news never reported on your love life until now, and suddenly there’s been two articles in a month. Say, you never did tell me what was going on between you and Miss Carlyle,” Holly says. Her tone is reasonable, but the glint in her eyes is far more scheming. 

“Carlyle, the reporter you lent your jacket to?” Kipps asks, clearly trying to add more fuel to Holly’s fire. 

“Was that her? I can’t quite remember,” Anthony bluffs. He’s a decent enough actor, but his quickly-reddening ears give him away. “If you’re talking about that reporter from Fittes, well, I don’t know much about her, but she’s an excellent writer.” 

Holly tilted her head to the side.“So there’s nothing between you two, then?”

“Of course not, Hols.” 

“So of course you wouldn’t mind that I invited her for an exclusive coverage of our store’s opening, then?” Holly asks, primly folding one leg over the other. Her tiny hands are clasped together, her eyes daring him to say something to the contrary. Anthony’s mouth is suddenly very dry, for reasons he’s not sure of.

“She’s coming here?”

“Yes, Anthony, here. You do mention what an excellent writer she is every time anyone brings her up, and Quill and I have been dying to get to know her better. I believe she’s even staying at the same hotel you are!”

“The Fairmont? Well, it’s a very big hotel. I do love the Beaux-Arts architecture of the exterior,” Anthony says in an attempt to change the topic. Thankfully, Holly takes the bait and starts enthusing on the Fairmont’s furniture. Anthony doesn’t miss the look Kipps gives him, but he tries not to dwell on it too long.

* * *

Anthony wakes up the next morning with a headache that has nothing to do with the gin he’d had the night before. He’s tangled up in his covers, his hair a dark tumbleweed on his head. Blearily, he checks his phone—5 AM. He slides out of bed and slinks towards the bathroom, the thermometer-controlled air wonderfully lukewarm against his skin.

He washes his face vigorously with cool water and follows with his morning skincare routine. Then he applies a healthy portion of sunscreen, and finishes with some light concealer. Anthony’s not big on makeup, although he appreciates its uses; he knows Kipps had a heavy black eyeliner phase, and Holly has a routine that could rival a Kardashian.

It’s a chilly, overcast sort of day, but Anthony doesn’t have much planned, so he decides to just throw a jacket over the outfit he was planning to wear anyways: a striped sweater with black chinos, and a pair of white sneakers. His jacket is a shade of teal that he thinks is pleasantly cheery.

It’s a ten minute walk to the Quill&Munro store in Union Square. Anthony buys himself some kind of green juice and a bagel for breakfast, and he finishes up the last bite just as he approaches the front door. There’s quite a little gathering at the entrance; not a crowd, as the store hasn’t formally opened yet, but more people than Anthony was expecting. 

There’s Kipps and Holly, of course. Next to them is a bony woman with short platinum blonde hair—Katharine Godwin, Holly’s fiance. She’s in the middle of a conversation with George Cubbins and Lucy Carlyle, both of whom look rather bedraggled, especially next to Kat’s sleek outfit. 

Kat is the first one to spot him.

“Hello, Anthony,” she says. 

Her tone is clipped, but then again, it usually is. All conversations stop as each person calls out their greeting to Anthony. They all seem to be varying degrees of ticked off.

“Nice to see you again, Kat! Something seems to be bothering you all. Such a shame too, because I’m quite chuffed to see you all,” Anthony says, He gives Holly an inquisitive glance, but it’s George who answers.

“We had a layover in New York,” George explains from behind a sullen Lucy. “Some luggage got mixed up. We got our equipment back, but our suitcases are still lost in transit.”

That would explain the gaudy “I HEART NYC” shirt and sweatpants set George is wearing (although, truthfully, it seems like a step up from the man’s daily outfits.) 

“We were all commiserating,” Holly says. “A whole week in San Francisco, and you both have nothing to wear!”

“Well, George fit most of his closet in his backpack, so it’s no real loss for him,” Lucy says, waving her hand dismissively. Kipps lets out a sharp bark of laughter, and doesn’t look the slightest bit ashamed when George elbows him.

“And what about you, love?” Holly asks. Lucy looks shocked that Holly asked about her at all, and looks downwards, embarrassed by the attention.

“I had my nice dress in my luggage—I mean, it wasn’t posh or anything like that, so there’s no use crying over it—”

Holly folds a hand over Lucy’s. “It doesn’t matter if it was expensive or not. The value of clothing lies in how much its owner adored it. If you loved it, then it’s alright to be upset over your dress.”

Lucy flushes. “It’s just clothes.”

That’s a sentence that Anthony knows Holly won’t like, but the short woman says nothing about it. Instead, she comfortingly runs a finger over Lucy’s knuckles. 

“I called Penelope, but she’s not answering my messages since I’m not technically here on Fittes business. You know how she can be,” Kat says. Anthony blinks. Right, Kat, Lucy, and George all work together. If Anthony is remembering their positions correctly, Kat, as fashion editor, must be their boss. 

“Are you here to supervise?” Anthony asks Kat.

“We don’t need supervision,” George interjects, gesturing between him and Lucy. “We’re a highly professional dynamic duo.” 

Both George and Lucy look like they’ve been dragged over gravel for the past week, but Anthony doesn’t point this out, and is thankfully spared from thinking of a response when Kipps speaks up.

“Anthony, Kat can’t write about Quill&Munro, or it’d be a conflict of interest, seeing as she and Holly are engaged and all that,” he says. “Do Fittes credit cards work internationally?”

Kat furrows her brow. “Yes, they do.”

Anthony claps his hands excitedly and beams at Lucy. 

“You must replace your clothing, Lucy! I’d be thrilled to take you shopping and help you pick out some things. I did offer before, after all.”

“You’re such a fine gentleman, Anthony, and you have _such_ an eye for fashion. Miss Carlyle, you’re in great hands,” Holly asks.

“What?” Lucy says. It seems like the idea hasn’t quite caught up yet in her mind; she sounds confused, wide eyes flitting between Holly and Anthony. He can tell when it dawns on her because she turns a violent shade of rhubarb. 

“Lockwood—you surely don’t want to do that,” she says, her nails digging firmly into the pleather strap of her laptop bag. 

“Of course I do!” Anthony says, smiling magnanimously down at her. He feels sympathy for her, to be stranded in a different country with no personal belongings. If he can help, then he should help. Besides, he hasn’t had a proper conversation with her since Jessica’s film debut in November. Of course, they like each other’s tweets on Twitter, and he’s caught glances of her at various events over the month, but she always seems to vanish before he can greet her. 

“Would you be taking George too?” she asks. George lets out a scoff.

“Fat chance. I already spent all my money on jumpers in JFK airport,” he says. 

“George was also going to take some shots of the store before we opened tomorrow,” Holly says. “Quill will be with him, of course, but I have evening plans with Kat in Sausalito, and won’t see you all until tomorrow.”

Lucy bites her lip, seemingly out of excuses. “Alright, then, Lockwood,” she says, sounding rather like she’s struggling to get the words out. She kicks at a loose pebble on the ground, scuffing up her shoes even more.

Holly and Kat leave shortly after discussing some final arrangements with Quill, taking a rideshare uptown. Quill opens up the shop for George, and Anthony and Lucy find themselves alone on the street outside.

The day’s grown colder, with heavy silver clouds overhead, but it doesn’t seem like it’ll be raining anytime soon. The air is pleasantly bitey, with very little wind coming in through the city. Anthony checks his phone for the time: just barely past 7 AM.

“Are you hungry, Lucy?” Anthony asks. There are several small eateries nearby, ones that he’s sure she’ll like. She hesitates, and then nods, and so Anthony takes her to a small cafe, just north of Maiden Lane. It’s fairly crowded this Wednesday morning, but Lucy manages to grab a small two-person table just as the other group is leaving. A heavily freckled waiter swings by their table and hands them two menus before quickly rushing off to help another party. 

The cafe is brightly lit, with warm, honey-colored walls and the pleasant scent of toast drifting through the store. There’s the indistinct chatter of their fellow customers, and, just barely audible under that, soft jazz standards playing. Anthony plays with the edge of his napkin, trying to decide how to best phrase his next words.

Lucy’s looking over her menu with such an intense expression of concentration that Anthony almost feels bad for getting her attention. Still, he does, and he clears his throat.

“Lucy, I must ask you something honestly,” he starts, folding his hands neatly on the table to avoid fidgeting with them. “Have I offended you in some way?”

Lucy sets down the menu, thick eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “What?” 

“I’ve noticed that, from time to time, you seem uncomfortable around me. While I certainly don’t hope I’ve made you nervous in any way, I do want to let me know if I have,” Anthony says, his voice even. Lucy blinks, seemingly taken aback. She looks down in her lap, then seems to reconsider and meets Anthony’s gaze steadily.

“Not uncomfortable,” Lucy says slowly. She seems too shocked to be flustered. “I’m just not used to your kind of lifestyle — And the people I have met with your upbringing aren’t always friendly.”

Anthony nods, following Lucy’s train of thought. “You had remarked before that I seemed different? You seemed comfortable with me from time to time.”

She bites her already-chapped lip. “That makes it harder for me. I do feel comfortable around...I mean, that I do enjoy…”

Now, it seems, Lucy’s blush is at last catching up to her, but she seems determined to explain herself. “I’m worried I’ll cross a professional line when I’m around you.” 

Anthony’s heart skips a beat, and he momentarily finds it hard to breath. “What?”

“I think when I’m working around you, I feel dangerously close to feeling like your,” Lucy says, and then drops her voice to a whisper, “friend.”

At the word ‘friend,’ Anthony finds himself releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. Thank God. He had been worried that Lucy had misinterpreted his friendliness towards her as something less platonic, but it seemed that they were both on the same wavelength. With the way her explanation had been shaping up, it had almost sounded like she was confessing something more emotionally loaded. That would have been a nightmare, to have to let her down easy. Afterall, the last thing Anthony wants is to muddle up his professional career — but ‘friend’ is fine. He can live with ‘friend.’

His heart slowing down to a more even tempo, Anthony smiles widely at Lucy. “You’re more than welcome to think of me as your friend, Lucy,” Anthony says. “If that’s all you were nervous about, then you really mustn't be anymore. It’s not unprofessional to have friends in the industry.” 

Lucy slouches over in her seat. She seems unlike Anthony’s ever seen now, maybe truly relaxed for the first time since he’s known her. It’s amazing how much a single, honest conversation changes her persona. The silences between them feel more natural, and when she does speak, Lucy turns out to have quite the talent for dry jokes. She’s not suddenly a charismatic talker, but Anthony finds himself quite pleased with their conversation all the same.

He orders an espresso and drinks it slowly as Lucy devours a French toast platter with admirable intensity. They pay seperately (Anthony has to explain the American custom of tipping to Lucy), and then head back out to the street. It’s not any warmer outside, but more people are out and about now, which adds a pleasant sort of kinetic energy to the city. 

They wind up on Fillmore, a street lined with Victorian-era buildings. Anthony strides over to a boutique and opens the door for Lucy.

“This is one of my favorite shops,” Anthony says excitedly, waving around the elegantly decorated showroom. “It’s all womenswear, and the owner used to work for ELLE in the ‘90s and she has a great eye.” 

The shop interior is smaller than the Quill&Munro flagship store, but it’s still quite generously spaced. The lighting is warm and slightly dimmed down, the floor mostly sleek marble with a large bespoke rug in the center. Most of the clothing is on racks lining the walls, the effect making them seem more like antiquities in a museum than a clothing store. Near the entrance are some armchairs and a geometric coffee table. 

Curious, Lucy reaches out for the clothes rack closest to her and pulls a dress off the hanger, looking at it with wide-eyed interest until her gaze falls on the price tag and she quickly puts it back on the rack.

“I can’t wear clothes this nice,” Lucy says stubbornly. “Let’s just go to another store — George’s told me loads about some place called Walmart.”

She turns to leave, and Anthony has to bound over to her and tug on her coat sleeve to keep her from getting too far. 

“I keep telling you, you absolutely can wear clothes like this. I did promise I’d help you find new clothes, and I can’t in good conscience let you go without trying something on,” Anthony says, giving Lucy his most endearing smile. 

“But isn’t this excessive, for just replacing my suitcase?”

Anthony hums. “Not if you see clothing as an investment.” 

He can tell that she’s still not entirely convinced, so he eases off a little. “If you end up not liking anything, we can leave. But you’re here on a company budget, so why not at least try on something?”

Lucy bites her bottom lip and teeters on her heels for a few seconds before nodding once. Cheerfully, Anthony tugs Lucy into the store, and the pair are quickly met by a saleswoman with curly brown hair and huge earrings.

“Good morning, can I get you two anything? Tea, champagne, rosé?”

“Um—is water an option?” Lucy asks. The saleswoman nods and turns to Anthony.

“Water will be fine,” Anthony says.

Another employee comes to greet them, this one salt-and-peppery with rimmed glasses. 

“Welcome, I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before,” she says, shaking Lucy’s hand. “What are you looking for today?”

Lucy, hand captured by the bespeckled employee, glances to Anthony for help. Anthony just smiles and gives her a thumbs up; he’d step in if she really was in trouble, but otherwise, he’s confident she can handle herself once she relaxes a bit.

“Clothes,” Lucy says.

The employee must be a seasoned professional, because she doesn’t miss a beat. “Perfect! That’s our speciality,” she says. “Any preferred pieces or style?”

“Um, shirts, sweaters, maybe a coat or two...I don’t mind pants, but I don’t like them being too tight. I prefer skirts and dresses, but nothing too short for the season. I don’t really know if I have a style—not feminine or romantic, but nothing too avant-garde either. Classic, maybe. And nothing too fussy,” Lucy says. She might not realize it herself, but Anthony sees her ease up as she discusses topics familiar to her. High-fashion clad or not, Lucy still knows the language of the industry better than she gives herself credit for. 

“Excellent. Why don’t I lead you to a changing room, and bring you some pieces?” The employee asks. Lucy nods, and so the older woman turns to Anthony. “Do you want to accompany your girlfriend?”

Lucy starts, but Anthony just smiles and puts a hand up. “No, I’ll just wait out here.” 

It’s not clear from the glance Lucy sends him whether or not she would have felt more comfortable with him accompanying her, but she’s quickly ushered through a door before she can say anything else. Anthony considers wandering the store, but decides against it and takes a seat on a poofy armchair near the door. 

There are several magazines stacked neatly on the glass coffee table, and Anthony reaches for the nearest one. From the date on the cover, it’s three years old. Blithely, Anthony wonders why this boutique doesn’t stock more recent publications, but perhaps the other magazines are more up to date. Anthony is about to set his magazine down and look for another one when the man on the cover catches his eye.

Percy Hunt is a supermodel a few years Anthony’s senior, but he and Anthony had attended several of the same events when Anthony was just starting out. While Hunt’s broad jaw and dark features are unique, Anthony realizes with a jolt that he hasn’t seen Hunt in months, in-person or in publications. Here, on this glossy magazine cover, Hunt seems like the media's sweetheart, but if Anthony recalled correctly, Hunt had fallen out of public favor not a month after the issue came out.

The details were blurry, but Anthony more or less remembered the story. Hunt, who had been considered the “internet’s boyfriend,” had revealed his secret girlfriend, to the heartbreak and anger of many of his fans. Said fans then snooped into the girlfriend’s personal life and gossiped about her private information, going as far as to find the school where she worked and showing up to harass her. The media wasn’t much better, putting Hunt and his girlfriend down with snarky remarks about her appearance and his “settling” for her. The hostile attention spiraled until Hunt and his girlfriend had a very messy, very public breakup, devolving into Hunt drunkenly going on an offensive Twitter rant, effectively blacklisting him in the industry. All of Hunt’s former partners no longer wanted anything to do with him, and he disappeared from the public eye.

It was a disaster, and although Anthony couldn’t recall any of its fine points, he had taken the lesson it had taught him about fame seriously. Celebrity was a double-edged sword, temperamental and fickle. Even whilst growing up in a famous household, Anthony had not truly seen how carefully one had to toe the line until that happened.

And that poor girl, too. Hunt had been actively seeking public recognition, but she hadn’t. She had just fallen in love with the wrong person, and had the audacity to fall out of the media's preconceived notion of what a model’s partner should be.

Anthony sighs, closing the magazine and settling back into the armchair. Well, that little depressing tangent had only reaffirmed something he knew to be true: he had to be single right now. It didn’t matter if he came across anyone he was interested in (which he _hadn’t_ , so it wasn’t an issue), because he absolutely could not act on those feelings. 

Maybe in five or ten years, when he felt he had come to a high enough point in his career—perhaps if he ever branched out into a different career, or if his position in society had been solidified for long enough, he could think about finding someone. It would be nice, he muses, to have someone on his arm, someone with whom to spend flashy events with, and to come home to…

He snaps himself out of his daydream. It’s a waste of time to be thinking about things that have absolutely no relevance in his present life, he tells himself, running his fingers through his hair. There are other, more real things to focus on.

Blessedly, the employee from before comes back. Anthony thought her rather quick, but a glance at his watch tells him that it’s somehow been a quarter of an hour since Lucy had gone in the back.

“She wants to get your opinion on an outfit,” the employee coos, as if Anthony and Lucy were particularly cute kittens. Anthony gives her a slightly-strained version of his usual smile and follows her into the back room. It’s a larger space than he expected; there’s leather loveseat pushed against the wall with several racks of clothing next to it, and a separate door that leads to the changing room. The employee beams and says something about running to get some more water before dashing out of the room.

“Lockwood, is that you?” Lucy asks, her voice slightly muffled by the door separating them.

“Yes, hello,” Anthony says.

“You said you’d help me, so I wanted to get your thoughts on the first outfit that I thought fit me,” she says, and then the door knob turns.

Lucy walks out hesitantly, but the space is small enough that it only takes a few short steps for her to come in full view. She’s wearing a jumper in a soft cream color that compliments her warm complexion well; the collar of the jumper is a mock neck and the material looks lush, probably mohair or cashmere. Her skirt (she seems quite partial to skirts) is high-waisted, the velvet material shifting between a dark blue and frosty gray as it moves in the light. Peeking out from under the hem of the skirt is a pair of dark brown boots.

It’s strange. Her style isn’t different by any means; Lucy has always dressed conservatively, and a sweater and skirt combo is hardly unusual for her. But the skirt fits and the sweater is flattering, and so the change is _dramatic_. Rather than swallow her form whole, her outfit actually brings her more into view. 

She's stunning.

“What do you think?” Lucy asks hesitantly. She turns slightly to see herself in the mirror. 

It takes a second for it to register that she’s asked him a question. “I think you look fantastic,” Anthony says. He can’t help but feel as if the word is underwhelming. “But more importantly, what do _you_ think?”

Lucy turns slightly to see herself in the mirror. “...It’s weird. As the lady was bringing me clothes, I kept thinking what a waste of time this was. I mean, the clothes I had already were fine. This kind of stuff doesn’t belong on me.”

She furrows her brow, staring into the reflection of her eyes. “But I feel like I’m looking at a different person. I look self-assured. A professional. Like a person who this outfit could belong to—Like someone who belongs at Fittes.”

“But haven’t you always? Isn’t actually _being_ at Fittes proof that you belong at Fittes?” Anthony asks, tone light despite the seriousness of his words. He takes a step closer to her, and she turns to face him. “Lucy, you’ve always been “good enough” for all of this. If this is what makes you more confident in it, then embrace it. From now on, you can stand a little taller.”

“Well, the boots are heeled, so I will,” Lucy says.

A second passes.

“Um, that was a joke,” she says. “You were supposed to laugh, just then.”

Anthony grins. “When I find it funny, I assure you I will.” 

Lucy scowls slightly and ducks her head, but she can’t hide the smile tugging on the corner of her lips as she shoves Anthony’s shoulder. “Oh God, this is going to be _that_ kind of friendship?”

Anthony starts laughing as Lucy shoos him out of the room. “I’ve been friends with Quill Kipps for four years now. I’m afraid I don’t know how any other functioning relationships work anymore.”

“Get lost!” Lucy says, but she’s smiling as she closes the door behind him.

They’re in the store for another couple of hours. Anthony spends it bouncing back and forth between the chairs near the coffee tables and the room in the back for the first hour, until the employee gets fed up and suggests he just wait in the back room for the remainder of their time. Lucy goes through several other outfits, some of which Anthony sees, some of which he doesn’t. When she finally checks out, the amount of items is large enough that they skip bagging it entirely and offer to send it to her hotel room instead.

When they exit the store, Lucy is wearing the same outfit as she had been when she first came in, but even the formless camel coat seems to be fitting her better. It’s the way she’s carrying herself, or perhaps the more comfortable air between them. They’re halfway to Quill&Munro’s, walking at an easy pace, when she stops him.

“Oh, that’s funny,” Lucy says, peering up at him.

“What is?” Anthony asks.

“Your hair’s all out of shape. I’ve never seen it like that before,” Lucy says, the corner of her mouth turning up into a lopsided smile. He hadn’t even noticed his hair falling out of place, which really isn’t like him. Lucy reaches up and brushes a dark lock back behind his ear, the action almost instinctive for her. 

“George’s hair gets like that too,” Lucy says. She seems to think nothing of the gesture, already on her way down the street.

Anthony catches up to her, stumbling over his own long legs for a second, but she luckily doesn’t notice. And even though his stride is even and their conversation is easy, _he_ notices. Anthony’s suddenly and uncomfortably hyper aware of everything.

Like how soft her fingers had been against his scalp. 

And how her laugh is delightfully ungirlish, warm and almost hearty.

And how his heart seems to be doing its best to break all known cardiac records and percuss right out of his chest.

Damn.

It. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think Lockwood's in denial _now_ , just wait until chapter 5... :) 
> 
> Hi everyone! I hope you didn't mind the wait for this chapter. It's the longest one so far, and with school and work, it's been a little hard to find time to write. Still, your comments and encouragements have been really helpful, so thank you so much! I'm always happy when I see a familiar name in the comment section. 
> 
> Notes:  
> \- Maiden Lane is a street in San Francisco well known for its boutique stores and overall bourgeoisie vibe. It's one of the most expensive streets in the city. Union Square is a busy, touristy area adjacent to it, well known for the famous SF trolleys and war memorial in the center.  
> \- The Fairmont Hotel is a luxury hotel in San Francisco, constructed in the very opulent Beaux-Arts style. Fun fact: it's where the United Nations treaty charter was first signed.  
> \- Sausalito is the city across the Golden Gate Bridge. It's much smaller, historically a fishing and shipbuilding town, but it's often used as a afternoon get away from people in SF.  
> \- Mohair is another expensive knit fabric, similar to cashmere. Its fibers are very thin and delicate, so it's used a lot to avoid bulky sweaters. 
> 
> On that note, I think it's important to mention that I really wanted to make sure that Lucy's "makeover" scene wasn't about her wearing the most expensive, most revealing clothing for her to impress Anthony. She stays in the style she's comfortable in, but the effort and thought into how she presents herself are what really make her seem different. High-end brands are fun and all, but ultimately, I believe that how comfortable someone is in their outfit is most important. I wanted this to be a responsible fashion fic, haha. 
> 
> Oufits:  
> \- Holly's eggshell blue winter coat + outfit, from Chloé:  
> 
> 
> \- Quill's edgy boy black winter outfit (unbranded, I like to think he made it himself):  
> 
> 
> \- Lockwood's teal shopping outfit, from British designer Paul Smith:  
> 
> 
> \- Lucy's 'makeover' outfit, from Sézane (which should be noted is not a designer brand.):  
> 
> 
> Thanks again so much for reading, and even more so if you've read all my notes! I swear, one day my notes will be longer than the chapter itself. Please be patient with me as I work on the next chapter, and I send you all my love!


	5. Portland Row

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> much much love to @dumbledoreslingerie again for catching my stupid 2 am mistakes, and also making me go to bed once she sees my stupid 2 am mistakes. send a little love her way.

It should be hard to write from his current position on the sofa, but miraculously, Anthony’s managing it anyways. His head dangles over one armrest, his legs the other, his long form stretched out luxuriously across the seat. In his hand is a pen and notepad, and he dutifully jots down words as his sister speaks.

“So, there’s Holly and Kat, of course, and Quill—”

“Please don’t call him Quill,” Anthony says, voice slightly nasally, as his head is upside-down. “That implies that you’re close to him, and I don’t want to think about that.”

“It’s more natural than you calling him ‘Kipps’ even though you’ve known him for nearly five years,” Jessica points out. “Anyways; Holly, Kat, Quill, Flo. Who else?”

“If you’re inviting Flo, you might as well invite George,” Anthony suggests. Jessica makes a noise in affirmation, and so Anthony writes down George’s name under Flo’s.

Most years, Jessica and Anthony would have celebrated the holiday with their parents; Celia and Donald had indeed flown up from France for Christmas, but had planned a couple’s cruise for the new year.

“We’ve had nearly three decades of New Years with you two,” Donald had said right after Anthony and Jessica had given him goodbye hugs. “I think it’s about time your mother and I celebrated it in our own way.”

Then, Anthony’s mother and father had shared a look that he _really_ didn’t want to think too deeply about, and left for the airport.

The Lockwood siblings don’t frequently entertain at Portland Row, but Jessica had insisted on hosting a New Year’s party this year, and her enthusiasm had quickly spread to Anthony. It would be a small affair, one meant more to celebrate than to draw any publicity. It would be nice, they reasoned, to spend some time with the real friends they had made in the industry rather than attend any flashy, crowded events.

“Let’s make it a potluck if George is coming. Flo’s talked about what a good cook he is, and it’s too much of a hassle to arrange catering for New Year’s,” Jessica says.

“Sure,” Anthony says. He doesn’t have any concrete ideas for the party, and knowing his sister, she’d probably steamroll any ideas she didn’t like anyways. 

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Jessica is no doubt thinking about other details she might have forgotten, and Anthony is running over a list of dishes he and Jessica could possibly prepare as hosts. Neither of them are exceptional cooks; Jessica usually orders take out, and Anthony can only make sandwiches and superfood smoothies.

“Oh!” Jessica says so suddenly that Anthony sits up fast enough to make him dizzy.

“What?”

“You should invite Lucy Carlyle!” Jessica says excitedly. “You’ve spoken so much about her, and she’s friends with George and Kat, isn’t she?”

At the mention of Lucy, Anthony feels his ears reddening. They hadn’t seen each other in person much since before Christmas, but she had begun texting him more now that they were “officially” friends. Anthony had had a flash of _unusual_ feelings towards her in San Francisco, but it hadn’t come up again, so he did his best to think nothing of it. He would admit to himself that they had grown closer than he had ever intended, but that didn’t mean anything else was going on.

Of course he had been happy to be with her in San Francisco. Lucy had just opened up to him, and they had spent a lovely morning shopping together. What wasn’t there to be cheerful about? Like most people, Anthony enjoyed spending time with his friends. Everything was fine and normal.

“Tony?” Jessica asks, snapping Anthony out of his spiral. 

He looks over to where his sister is sitting. “Huh?”

Jessica raises one meticulously-groomed eyebrow. “I said that we should invite Lucy Carlyle. Unless, for some reason, we shouldn’t?”

Anthony straightens himself in his chair, squaring his shoulders to face his sister. “No, I can’t think of a reason we shouldn’t. She’s a great friend.”

“Alright then, perfect! Let me make some calls—I have to start planning decorations!” Jessica lets out a little hum of excitement as she slides out of her chair. Anthony watches her go up the stairs, not pulling out his phone until he hears the sure _click_ of her bedroom door. He inhales a deep breath and taps on Lucy’s name in his contact book.

**anthony:** hey! when r you back in london again?

Her response bubble pops up under his text right away, which is unusual. They’ve been messaging pretty frequently since San Francisco, as their busy schedules didn’t let them meet up often, and Anthony likes to think he knows her texting habits by now. Lucy’s definitely not as technology savvy as he is, and she usually responds to his frequent messages sporadically, most often in the late hours of the evening.

**lucy:** I just got off the train two hours ago. 

**lucy:** So, today.

**anthony** : oooh how was home?

**lucy** : The same as always, cold. Mum’s still salty I left for London in the first place but w/e. 

**lucy** : She kept complaining my skirt was too short.

 **lucy** : Thanks for asking.

**anthony** : of course! 😊 😜

 **anthony** : do you have any plans for new years eve?

She doesn’t respond for a while after that, which makes Anthony worry. Did he say something wrong? Maybe it was the way he phrased it—perhaps he should clarify that it would be a group event at his family’s home, and that his sister will be there—but right before he’s about to send a whole paragraph explaining the situation, she responds.

**lucy** : No. Why?

 **anthony** : we’re hosting a nye party at our home! 🎉🎉🎉

**lucy** : I see

 **lucy** : Have a good time then.

**anthony** : nooo i mean do you want to come? I’m inviting you 

**anthony** : did you think i’d tell you just to rub it in?

 **anthony** : 😥

**lucy** : Oh, that makes a lot more sense. I was really bitter for a second.

**anthony** : haha aren’t you always?

**lucy** : Haha

 **lucy** : But in all earnestness, thanks. I’d love to come.

Anthony smiles (both in real life, and in text in form by the way of a large grinning emoji), and promises to follow up with the details once they have everything sorted out. It’ll be nice to see her again, he muses, and then quickly amends that thought—it’ll be nice to see everyone again for the new year.

* * *

“Anthony, the dumplings are done!”

“I’ll get to it in a second,” Anthony calls out to his sister, who he can’t see but he knows is somewhere on the staircase above him. “I have to take a second after nearly throwing out my back taking down the lights.”

Jessica pokes her head over the railing, frowning down at Anthony. The effect is ruined by the fact that Jessica has apparently only finished applying makeup to one of her eyes, making her look rather lopsided. “Our guests will be here in less than an hour. I don’t want the food to burn.” She says, waving her mascara wand at Anthony.

“Then do your makeup faster,” Anthony says, and he smiles cheekily up at his sister when she scowls at him. Despite him getting the final word in, Jessica wins anyways; Anthony slinks his way over to the kitchen with a sigh.

There’s a richness of steam filling the room, and Anthony quickly turns off the stove. He takes the pan of dumplings and quickly begins plating them, rolling up his sleeves to avoid making a mess of his turtleneck. As much as Anthony likes dressing up, it’s nice to wear a comfortable outfit for once. 

Dumplings fully plated, he takes them out to the dining room and sets out one plate at each end of the table. The Lockwood siblings had made them from scratch, using their own family recipe; most of the dumplings are misshapen, but they smell good and hadn’t fallen apart in the pan like their earliest attempts, so Anthony’s pretty happy.

There’s a rapid series of steps from the staircase, and Jessica appears beside him, still in the process of putting in a rather glittery pair of earrings. She’s dressed in a silk blouse and jeans, which Anthony thinks is unusually plain for Jessica’s tastes. When Jessica turns around to examine the newly-cleaned living room, however, her blouse reveals itself to have a rather daring open back.

“I hope you don’t catch a cold tonight,” Anthony quips, poking her on her bare shoulder blade. Jessica yelps and hits him with the back of her hand.

“Act like an adult, Tony,” Jessica hisses.

Anthony sticks his tongue out at his sister, who reciprocates the gesture. Despite being twenty-two and twenty-eight, it seems that neither of them can resist devolving into childish sibling bickering. 

They continue to squabble over nothing in particular as they finish laying out the table. Eventually, despite their bickering, the siblings manage to put together a neat space to entertain. There’s a mini bar and some boxed sweets on the refreshments table, and Anthony’s dragged out an old record player of their grandmother’s to play music. They’ve only just gotten the fire going in the fireplace when the doorbell rings.

Surprisingly, Flo’s the first one to arrive. Clad in almost-comically large mittens and a pom-pom hat, the director hands Anthony a dish containing a soggy-looking ratatouille.

“‘Ello,” she says, voice muffled under a layer of scarf. “That’s my father’s family recipe. I also brought an empty tupperware so I can take some food home at the end of the party.”

With that, Flo kicks off her boots and clambers over to the mini bar. Jessica and Anthony exchange a look, but are luckily saved from any further Flo remarks when the doorbell rings again.

Although not in quick succession, all their guests eventually arrive. Kipps shows up precisely on time, and the eye contact he makes with Jessica as he hands her his garden salad lasts entirely too long for Anthony’s comfort. Holly comes fashionably late with Kat in tow, while George comes unfashionably late looking as if he’d just rolled out of bed. Lucy is the last to arrive, almost thirty minutes after the party’s official start time. 

“I’m sorry for being late,” Lucy says when Anthony opens the door, her cheeks flushed from the cold. “I tried to make a saffron risotto, and I burnt it the first try. I hope it’s alright.”

Jessica takes Lucy’s dish from her, and Anthony steps aside as Lucy enters Portland Row. There are various greetings exchanged as Lucy steps in, but the woman herself seems more focused on removing her rain-drenched coat. Instinctively, Anthony reaches out and unwraps Lucy’s coat from her shoulders, hanging it on the rack next to the door.

Lucy stares at him for a second, vaguely surprised at the gesture, but she shrugs it off with a grateful tilt of her head. He supposes it’s one advantage of them becoming real friends; Lucy isn’t flustered by his mannerisms anymore. Anthony, on the other hand, feels slightly embarrassed for acting without thinking. It’s not as if he’s done anything inappropriate (quite the opposite, actually), but the tips of his fingertips seem to burn from where they’d brushed the warmth of her shoulder.

“You look wonderful,” Anthony says softly, stepping aside to let Lucy pass. He hasn’t seen her since San Francisco a month ago, and he feels a strange rush of pride to see that Lucy’s still dabbling with clothing. Her outfit is understated but eye-catching: Lucy’s sweater is plain, but her skirt is a lush red velvet, cinched tightly around her waist and flaring out into dramatic pleats. It takes Anthony a second too long to realize he’s been staring at her— _acting without thinking, again_.

Lucy, preoccupied with unbuckling her boots, doesn’t notice. Luckily, they’re drawn into conversation and drinks with the others in the living room before Anthony can _really_ make a fool of himself.

Jessica’s arranged it so that the chairs and sofas are all in a half-circle, which makes it easy for everyone to face each other. Lucy goes to sit next to Flo, and so Anthony’s left with the free spot between Kipps and Kat.

“Kipps!” Anthony says cheerfully, throwing one long arm over Kipps’ shoulders. The shorter man glares at him but doesn’t shrug it off. “Happy New Year’s eve. Do you have any resolutions?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Kipps says. He holds up a hand and begins counting. “First, I’d like you to talk to me less. Secondly, I’d like you to show more respect. Third, I’d—”

“Those aren’t proper resolutions,” Anthony interjects. “Those are all things that _I_ would do. Resolutions are things _you_ would do.”

“I don’t know why you think I’d go around sharing those things with you. Isn’t personal information supposed to be personal?” Kipps says.

“Sometimes I feel like you like being contradictory just for the sake of it.”

“ _Fine_. I suppose I’d like to launch a new collection focused on androgyny, or maybe just an entire historical fashion line,” Kipps says, rolling his eyes as Anthony lets out a cheer. “Holly keeps telling me to take time off and rest more, so maybe I should do that.”

Anthony nods. “You really should. You always have undereye bags when I see you.” 

Kipps scowls. “They’re _genetic_ and you know that.”

“Speaking of genetics, _move_ , dear brother,” Jessica says, smoothly sliding her lithe form between Anthony and Kipps on the couch. Anthony lets out an uncharacteristically undignified squawk of pain. 

“You’re sitting on me,” Anthony hisses.

“So scootch a little closer to Katharine,” Jessica says before turning to Kipps. “Quill, how’s tricks? I saw the suit you designed for Theodore York in Milan. It was amazing.”

Something about Kipps’ expression changes. ‘Softens’ might be a bit of a stretch (no matter what, something about his face always looks sharp and haughty), but the corners of his lips quirk up and he looks suddenly energized.

“Thank you,” Kipps says, a little awkwardly—Anthony knows he’s never been good at accepting praise. “I was surprised to be invited tonight. Tony and I have known each other for far too long, but I had only met you once. Did he make you invite me?”

Jessica laughs. “Oh, no. Truth be told, I’ve been wanting to get to know you better for a while now.”

There’s an underlying implication under her words, one that Anthony is suprised (and grateful) to hear is _not_ raunchy, but rather heartfelt instead. The two are regarding each other with such an unexpected amount of warmth and curiosity that Anthony rather feels like a trespasser overhearing their conversation. He decides to move.

“Lockwood, so nice of you to join us,” George says when Anthony sits next to him on the couch. The blond man offers Anthony a tray of biscuits, which he readily accepts. “I don’t know why you gravitated to Kipps of all people.”

“He just lures me in like a siren,” Anthony says, winking, and George lets out a snort. On George’s other side is Flo, who’s proudly showing off pictures of what looks like an empty fish tank to Lucy.

“My cousin gave me him for Hanukkah,” Flo brags, pointing at her screen. “His name is Aristotle and he has an awesome crowntail.” 

Anthony has to lean in close to see what she’s referring to. In the lower right section of a large tank is a blue betta fish. The fish doesn’t look particularly amazing to Anthony. It looks like a fish.

“I have a pet too. A cat. His name is Skull, and I got him right after I moved to London,” Lucy says. She digs out her phone as well and holds it out; on her lockscreen is a very large, very fluffy angry-looking white cat.

“He’s cute,” Anthony says.

“He’s a bastard,” Lucy says, with the slightest bit of fondness in her voice.

“Cats are okay I guess, but betta fish have unusually high levels of aggression for fish. If you have two of them in a tank, they’ll kill each other,” Flo says, just as fondly.

“Oh my,” Anthony says. “Is that good?”

“Obviously,” Flo says.

George taps Anthony on the shoulder. “Do you know what everyone brought? I was meaning to go over there and look at all the dishes, but Holly told me it would be impolite.”

“Yes, it would be, George,” Holly says, sliding primly onto an ottoman next to Lucy. Holly’s tight curls are tied up into a bouncy high ponytail, and there’s a large bow in her hair that bobs up and down as she moves. On anyone else, it would look ridiculous; on Holly, it just works.

“I brought a pot roast,” Holly says. “Of course, it’s not actual meat. It’s jackfruit instead of beef, and it’s vegan too! I used avocado oil instead of butter, and there’s no potatoes since they’re heavy in carbohydrates.”

At the word ‘pot roast’ George had abruptly sat up, and at the word ‘vegan’ he sank back down.

“Can you still call that a pot roast?” he moans.

“Are you vegan, Holly?” Lucy asks. 

“I try to be when I can. I know it’s not possible for everyone to be so choosy about what they eat, so I try not to force it. But I love cooking healthy! Once you try black bean brownies or chia pudding, you don’t ever miss the real thing,” Holly says brightly. Lucy looks skeptical. 

“Holly, if your wedding cake is going to be made out of flax seed or something similar, I might not be able to attend,” George says. Anthony can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

“Shouldn’t you not talk about the wedding in front of someone who’s not invited?” Flo says, gesturing at Lucy with as much subtlety as a truck ramming into a wall. Anthony feels a very sudden, Holly-esque urge to scold Flo on her lack of tact.

“Flo—”

“It’s alright,” Lucy says, her tone heated. “I’m attending Holly’s wedding, so there’s no need to worry about offending me. Any further, that is.”

Flo brushes off Lucy’s aggression with a shrug and a sip of white wine, seemingly not caring either way. Holly intervenes.

“I don’t think Flo intended any offense, Lucy,” she says. “And Lucy, Kat and I are very excited to have you as a guest for our wedding. I’m sure everyone else is as well.”

George and Anthony make noises of assent. Even Flo looks somewhat apologetic, which seems rare for her. Lucy’s cheeks are rather red, but she takes it in stride and doesn’t say anything else on the topic. Holly successfully pulls the other two women into a conversation about some author that Anthony’s never heard of, but the three all seem equally passionate about. 

He’s kind of surprised to hear that Lucy’s been invited to Holly’s wedding. He hadn’t thought the two to be particularly close; yes, they’ve worked together a couple of times (both with and without Anthony present), but they never mention the other. Lucy hadn’t even told Anthony about receiving an invitation. 

Why hadn’t she? They’re certainly been texting a lot. Granted, they don’t talk much about any long term plans or serious matters, so perhaps she just hadn’t thought to bring it up. Lucy surely would have known he would be going. It’s not as if, once at the wedding, she would be able to hide the fact from him. He can’t quite place a finger on why, but her silence on the matter bothers him.

There’s no time for him to dwell on the matter, however. Jessica announces that it’s time to eat dinner, and no one protests. Now, with all the potluck dishes laid out, Anthony can see what an odd hodgepodge of dishes they’ve prepared, but as mismatched as everything is, it all smells delicious. They sit around the seldom-used formal table in the dining room, serving themselves and chattering freely.

Between the warm, friendly conversations taking place and large mouthfuls of George’s _amazing_ duck confit, Anthony feels himself growing contentedly drowsy. Everyone else seems to be in a similar state of bliss.

“These are great,” Flo says, voice thick around a mouthful of dumplings. She chews with her mouth open, but even Holly seems too comfortable to scold her.

“I liked the risotto,” Kipps says. “Who made that?”

Lucy raises her hand. “I did.”

“Oh, well, kudos.”

“Thank you,” Lucy says, looking somewhat surprised by the compliment. Jessica is beaming, obviously pleased that her party is going so smoothly. She has a glint in her eyes that Anthony knows means she’s planning something, and he can only hope that it’s not anything that requires a lot of movement. At the moment, his stomach feels rather like a bowling ball.

Jessica gently taps her wine glass with her knife, and all heads turn to her.

“Dinner was fantastic, but let’s have a change of pace!” Jessica says, setting her knife down with enthusiasm. “Who has a good party game?”

“Never have I ever?” Kat suggests. “Instead of putting a finger down, we take a drink every time we’ve done something.”

The suggestion from Kat surprises Anthony; he’d never figured her as someone to play along with these kinds of activities, but perhaps the alcohol and atmosphere have loosened her up.

“That sounds splendid. Why don’t you go first, then?” Jessica says, and there are noises of agreement from around the table. Some look less enthused than others, but no one seems unwilling to play.

Kat shifts in her chair and wraps her arms around herself. She’s wearing a sweater that Anthony has just noticed is the same shade of blue as Holly’s bow, which is surprisingly sweet.

“Okay. Never have I ever been to Asia.”

Jessica and Anthony both take a drink, having both traveled to Hong Kong many times to visit their father’s side of the family. Holly and George drink as well. 

“Where in Asia did you go, Holly?” Anthony asks.

“My mum’s from Pakistan, so she took me once to visit my cousins,” Holly says cheerfully. “I’d love to go back some day.”

“And I went to Tokyo. There was this food festival I was covering...” George trails off, bliss overtaking his doughy face.

They go counterclockwise around the table, and so Holly’s next.

“Ooh! Never have I ever...been arrested,” Holly says. Kipps takes a rather exasperated swig of his gin. After a beat, so does Flo.

“Really?” Kat asks. Flo raises an eyebrow.

“What? Surprised I’ve broken the law once or twice?”

“Surprised you let yourself be caught, more like,” Kat retorts back, and Flo gives her a toothy grin. Kipps scowls.

“Why is no one suprised that _I_ was caught?” Kipps asks. “Doesn’t anyone want to know the story?”

“No.”

“Shut up, George.”

“My turn,” Lucy says, drawing the room’s attention away from what had been squaring up to be a particularly entertaining squabble between George and Kipps. “Never have I ever had a brother.”

There aren’t any surprises here; Jessica, of course, takes a sip, as do Kipps, Flo, and Holly. 

“Never have I ever worn heels,” George says. The only person who doesn’t take a drink is Flo. Anthony had only worn them twice before, both times as a part of an ensembled catwalk outfit.

When it gets to Kipps, the freckled man pointedly sets down his glass and raises his chin. “All of yours have been very civil, but I’m going to start getting personal because I want to win. Never have I ever been interested in an employee of Fittes Magazine.”

There’s a sudden burst of commotion around the table at Kipps’ sudden changing of the games’ status quo, but the group relents anyways. Jessica smirks, her glass untouched, while Flo and Holly both take a shot. Lucy laughs at her scowling coworkers, the soft curl of her bangs pleasantly framing her face as she leans forward to tease George. Her hair is a dark shade of brown, but in this golden light, it seems to glow amber.

“Tony.”

Kipps’ voice cuts through Anthony’s thought and he snaps back to the present, too disoriented to correct Kipps.

“Aren’t you going to drink?” Kipps says pointedly, cocking an eyebrow. It feels, suddenly, like everyone’s eyes are on Anthony. As casually as possible (even as, for some reason, his palms are sweating), Anthony raises his glass to his lips and takes a small sip of wine. He feels it on his tongue, but doesn’t taste it.

That seems to satisfy the room, and everyone’s attention is diverted by Flo loudly burping. Everyone, it seems, except for Jessica, whose eyes Anthony can feel burning a hole into the side of his head. 

“Can I help you?” Anthony hisses under his breath. Jessica blinks and smiles. 

“It’s nothing, dear Tony. Oh, it’s my turn!” Jessica’s gaze snaps away from Anthony, but that somehow doesn’t make him feel anymore comfortable. 

He manages to recover by the time it’s his turn (never has he ever dated a flat earther, to specifically target Kipps), and if anyone else has noticed him acting oddly, they don’t bring it up. They go twice more around the dinner table before they’re all too inebriated to think of any more prompts or remember who did what, so George lures them all back into the living room with the promise of cake.

“How many more minutes until midnight?” Kat asks, lolling over the arm of a sofa. 

George checks his watch. “Six.”

“Who are you going to kiss at midnight?” Jessica teases.

“I don’t like public displays of affection” Kat says, furrowing her brows. “But if I did—obviously my fiance?”

“Do people still do that?” Kipps asks from where he’s sitting on the carpet. Jessica grins at him. 

“If they don’t, I’d be glad to bring it back in fashion,” she winks. Anthony quickly diverts his attention to the other side of the room, unwilling to follow the exchange. Luckily, a distraction appears in the form of Lucy. She takes the cushion next to his on the loveseat.

“I feel like I’ve barely gotten a chance to talk to you all night,” she says, smoothing out the velvet of her skirt. Anthony had been thinking the same thing, and for some reason, the shared sentiment makes him feel very warmly towards her.

“Well, I know Flo was telling you about her that time she stole a lizard. That story is terribly engrossing,” Anthony says.

“She fell asleep before she got to the end.”

“Ah, well that explains why you’re keeping your dinner down so admirably,” Anthony quips.. Lucy smiles back at him, the expression hesitant but genuine.

“Thank you for inviting me. The food was great, and I’m glad I didn’t have to spend new year’s alone with Skull. I don’t think I ever imagined myself attending a party like this, carrying conversations with designers and actresses.” Lucy says. 

“And George, of course,” Anthony adds, grinning widely. Lucy laughs, and something inside Anthony soars at the sound. He’s missed her laugh, he thinks; Anthony’s grateful to have a friend to text to regularly, but seeing Lucy in person is even more pleasant.

“You must come by Portland Row again,” he says, surprising himself. “If you ever have the time, you should stop by.”

“Really?”

“Yes! I—I mean, Jessica and I would be glad to have you visit,” Anthony says. His mouth is producing words faster than his brain, a phenomenon he had not previously thought possible.

“I’ll let you know when I’m in the area, then,” Lucy says. The look she gives him is earnest, and Anthony stomps down at whatever’s fighting to rise in his chest. He prays to God that this feeling is indigestion and does his best to ignore it. Lucy doesn’t seem to notice, too busy checking the time on her phone. Anthony swallows.

“Can I just say—”

“Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven! Six!”

Anthony and Lucy both turn around to where the others are counting down; Holly, with her arm linked with Kat’s, George, taking a video, and Jessica somehow wrangling Kipps into cheering with them.

“Five!”

Lucy is swept up in the countdown as well, leaning forward to get a better look at the clock on the wall. She’s close enough to Anthony now that he can smell the spicy citrus scent of her shampoo. Her eyes are wide, expression open as she gets swept up in the enthusiasm of the room. 

“Four!”

 _Do_ people still kiss at midnight on New Year’s, he wonders? It’s a question that comes up out of nothing but circumstance; Kipps had posed the question, and now Anthony asks too. He wants to know the answer, if only for no other reason but to have it.

“Three!”

Maybe he should be chanting along too, but for some reason, Anthony’s mouth is very dry.

“Two!”

Lucy’s wearing lipstick, Anthony realizes. Just a little bit—it’s sheer and glossy, so maybe a balm, but it’s a cherry red that’s meant to draw attention to her mouth. It’s working.

“One!”

Her face is very close—

“Happy New Year!”

There’s a round of cheers in Portland Row loud enough to wake up Flo, who grumbles even as George kisses her on the cheek. Anthony can hear the sound of other people celebrating on the street, the distant crack of fireworks coming from the sky.

Lucy sits back down in her seat, slightly breathless. 

“Sorry, you were saying something?” 

“It was nothing,” Anthony says, and whatever had overcome him has been successfully subdued. “Just—Happy New Year, Lucy.”

* * *

 **Anthony Lockwood @ajlockwood** ✔️· **12m**

happy new year everyone 🎉! i hope it’s a good one for all of us. i can’t wait to see what this year brings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I have to say that the amount of love in your comments last chapter really blew me away! I hope this chapter didn't disappoint. My schedule's been a little wonky (given the state of the world right now, you can probably guess why), but I'm grateful to all of you who take the time to read this fic. I hope it can bring you some joy in this weird time. :) 
> 
> Notes:  
> \- As a gift for all her hard work beta-ing, I let Dumby choose what Kipps was arrested for. She said public nudity, so that's canon in this story now.
> 
> \- Anthony's colorful jumper, from De Fursac S/S 2015:  
> 
> 
> \- Jessica's backless blouse, from Reformation:  
> 
> 
> \- Lucy's skirt, from Maje:  
> 
> 
> Honestly, I can't think of any other notes for this chapter. It was a pretty domestic setting, and I feel as if most things are self explanatory. If you do have any questions, feel free to include it in a comment! Next chapter might have some more industry-related notes. ;) 
> 
> I want to thank you all again for your support and encouragement, and I pray that you all stay safe and healthy in this scary time. See you next chapter!


	6. Lucy's Flat (and Paris)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to dumby as always for beta-ing parts of this chapter, to wolf for reading over some descriptions for me, and to asta for convincing me into making anthony a classics major.

“Hi, Lucy, here are the books.” 

Anthony winces as his voice cracks slightly (unusual, as he had always considered his tone quite even), and clears his throat.

“Hi Lucy! Here are the books!”

He frowns. Was that, perhaps, _too_ enthusiastic? What was the right amount of enthusiasm, exactly, for a friend delivering fashion reference books to another friend? Perhaps it would be better to be more formal, especially since he was visiting Lucy’s flat for the first time—although, visiting was a stretch, since he was only here to drop them off. 

“Hello, Lucy. I’ve brought you these books. I hope they’re helpful for whatever purposes you may have...for them.” 

Anthony shudders. _That_ was definitely not it. Cursing slightly, the svelte man shifts the weight of his bag on his shoulder and mutters furiously to himself. The door swings open with a frightful suddenness, and Anthony takes a step back in surprise.

“Anthony! I must not have heard the doorbell.” 

He looks down to see a bemused Lucy Carlyle, who, gratefully, seems to not have heard a single word of Anthony’s uncertain mumbling. She’s dressed casually in a button-up sweater and a pair of slate blue culottes, which Anthony supposes are the skirts of pants. 

“I’m a little early, my apologies,” Anthony says, and it’s a testament to Celia Lockwood’s public speaking lessons that not a single ounce of his nervousness seems to be present in his words. Lucy waves him off.

“Perfect timing, actually. I just finished all my work for today. You can come in for a cuppa if you want,” Lucy says, as if that’s as natural as breathing. She turns around and walks back into her flat as Anthony remains on the front step, feeling suddenly and mysteriously lightheaded. Anthony wonders if he should protest; he wouldn’t want to force his presence in her home, and if she had only _just_ finished work—but still, his natural curiosity gets the better of him. He follows her, kicking his shoes off (rather smoothly with both of his hands full, if he may add) when he sees that Lucy isn’t wearing hers. 

“You can put those books wherever,” Lucy calls from what Anthony presumes is the kitchen. “Do you want green or black tea?”

“Black, please. Earl grey if you have it,” Anthony says, looking around for somewhere to set his bag. It’s quite a challenge. Lucy’s flat would be most politely described as “organized chaos.” The small room that he’s currently standing in seems to be some sort of living room/dining room/office space all in one, with off-white walls and a worn hardwood floor. There’s a large window opposite the front door that Anthony imagines would let in a pleasant amount of natural light if the weather weren’t gloomy and overcast at the moment. Pushed under the window is a loveseat that’s been covered with so many pillows and blankets that it looks like a nest. Lucy must like to work from it, he muses, seeing that one of the seat cushions has been reduced to a misshapen lump. Her laptop is on the floor right next to the loveseat. The image of Lucy bundled up in blankets and typing away on her keyboard comes very easily to Anthony, and he finds it endearing.

There’s a circular wooden table near the front door, but it’s covered in a pile of letters, various jackets, and a pot containing a very miserable looking lavender plant. The floor is more clear; there are a few knickknacks dropped here and there, but Lucy seems to have kicked aside a clear pathway for herself. It’s almost impressive.

Anthony finally decides on setting his bag of books right next to the sofa just as Lucy comes out of her kitchen with two mismatched mugs of tea. She hands him the larger cup, a tall ceramic mug with a painting of a very fat and very jolly penguin on it. He takes it and thanks her.

“We can sit—” Lucy looks around as if seeing the room for the first time. “Um, well. I can move some stuff on the couch.”

Lucy, still gripping her mug, begins to single-handedly pull various blankets and pillows to the floor until all that remains on the loveseat is a white fur cushion. Anthony crosses the room and wonders if perhaps she’s sentimentally attached to that pillow in some way. Then the pillow raises its head and blinks a pair of lemon yellow eyes at him.

Anthony Lockwood doesn’t shriek. He, perhaps, lets out a rather high-pitched masculine wail of surprise, but he doesn’t _shriek_. 

The pillow gives a haughty sniff that reminds him unsettlingly of Kipps and extends a fluffy forepaw towards Lucy, thoroughly unimpressed with Anthony.

“I should have warned you. Sorry,” Lucy says, trying and failing to cover the smile on her face. “This is Skull. You’re not allergic to cats, are you?”

Anthony, whose heart is hammering fast enough to rival a hummingbird’s, manages to stammer out a “no.” Skull unfolds himself, stretches luxuriously, and then jumps off the couch. The cat strides out of the living room and into what Anthony assumes is Lucy’s bedroom, quite pleased with himself. 

Anthony settles on the couch next to Lucy, situating himself on the part of the cushion covered with the least amount of white fur.

“You must think I’m such a slob. I don’t have guests a lot,” Lucy says, in that defensive tone that Anthony has learnt means she’s nervous. “And I don’t usually have so much clothes lying around, but since I’m in the middle of packing…”

“I think nothing of the sort, Lucy. Besides, I understand that this must be very exciting for you. I remember my first fashion week abroad,” Anthony says, a note of fondness in his voice.

“London fashion week was very interesting. I didn’t think Fittes would send me to Paris within my first year of working with them, but I suppose I should be grateful for it. I’ve never been to France. George is quite eager to show me the sights; you know he travels abroad often for work,” Lucy says.

“Well, I hope you enjoy the city then! There’s an excellent patisserie in the 9th arrondissement...Café Adelaide on _Rue Provence_ , I believe. You must try their _pain au chocolat_ —I’m afraid I never get to see much of the city when I’m there.” 

“You don’t?” Lucy asks, surprised. 

“No, I’m usually being prepped for a show or just otherwise backstage. When I’m not in the theatre I’m usually tuckered out in the hotel,” Anthony says, a tinge of regret in his tone. “I’m there for business, not pleasure, of course.” 

Lucy moves as he speaks, leaning over him slightly to grab the bag on the floor. As she lifts the bag up, the neckline of her sweater shifts so that one of her shoulders is bare. There’s a scattering of dark sunspots near her collarbones, and a strap of terracotta-red fabric that stands out against her light brown skin. Anthony catches sight of it and immediately averts his eyes, his mouth going dry around the word “pleasure.”

She doesn’t seem to notice. Lucy absentmindedly fixes her sweater with a shrug of her shoulder, too busy rifling through the stack of books. They’re all thick hardback books, most of them plenty read from the years where Celia Lockwood was active as a designer. There’s an especially heavy one that Lucy struggles to pull out of the bag. It’s bound in dark leather with green lettering on the cover, and Lucy’s eyes widen when she sees the title. 

“‘Fittes Manual for Trend-hunters’ by Marissa Fittes,” she reads outloud. “Holy shit, are you kidding me? Do you know how hard this book is to come by? Kat told me that Marissa ordered all unsold copies to be _burned_ after she died so that it would remain exclusive.”

“Yeah, she was a bit of a nutter,” Anthony says cheerfully. “Mum managed to snag a few copies though. She said you could borrow this one, seeing as it’s your first full fashion week. I’m sure you’ll enjoy actually covering the runway, and not just the life of some silly chap in a see-through blouse.”

Lucy flushes slightly, holding the book close to her chest. “Don’t say that,” she says, her tone so heated that she almost sounds offended _for_ him. “I didn’t think you were silly at all.” 

“Right. Well, thanks,” Anthony says rather lamely, not at all sure how to respond.

There's an awkward spot of silence then. Lucy flips through the book, lost in thought, and Anthony finally takes a sip of his tea. It’s still a little too hot to drink and too bitter for his tastes, but he powers through, at a loss of what else to do.

He’s not normally this bad a small talk, he knows. Anthony’s actually known to be a very charismatic conversationalist, but for some reason he can’t think of anything to say. He wracks his brain so hard he can practically hear all three of his thoughts jumbling together in the vacant space, struggling to think of something to say. His gaze darts around her living room until it lands on a small gold trophy displayed on the edge of her bookcase.

“That’s very nice,” he says, nodding at it. “What is it for?”

“I won that in Year Twelve in a writing competition for some publishing company. They sent me the trophy and some money I used for uni tuition,” Lucy says. 

“I’m not at all surprised you won first place. You must have made everyone else look like barely literate rabbits,” Anthony says. “How about the medal next to it, the silver one?”

Lucy sits up when he mentions the medal, excited. “That one my team and I won in a football match! It was really the only big game tournament I’ve ever been in, but I reckon second place is pretty good. I think that would have been in my second year of university.”

“You play football?” Anthony asks.

“Only for fun, and not so much anymore. My mum used to drop me and my sisters off at the park when she wanted us out of the house, so I think I’ve just always liked it. I joined the team in secondary school and played in a club for university. But I haven’t really had the time since I came to London,” Lucy says. “Do you play?”

“Oh—not really. I like to watch the matches, but it’s not really something I like to partake in. I was in fencing competitions when I was younger. That’s the only sport I’ve done,” Anthony says. Lucy laughs.

“Well, okay, I get it. You wouldn’t really want to go in and ruin your money-making face with a broken nose, would you?” Lucy teases. “You must be fond of indoor hobbies, like arts and crafts. I like to sketch.”

“I’m a terrible artist,” 

“Fair enough. Do you sing?”

“Never intentionally.”

“How about sewing?”

“Kipps taught me how to mend basic rips and sew on buttons, but I don’t really think that’s a hobby.”

Lucy kicks one foot onto the couch, looking rather exasperated. She waggles the book at him. “I bet you’re like George, then, nose always in some pretentious novel.”

Anthony feels like he’s making himself look worse and worse with every skill he denies. “I don’t read for pleasure much, actually. Except for—”

He can feel himself flushing. It’s always noticeable when he does, being so pale, and Lucy picks up on it right away.

“Except what?” Lucy asks, and _surely_ she must know that blinking her dark doe eyes like that must be a crime of some sort.

“I, um, am a subscriber to some rather eccentric publications aimed at adolescent people, mainly female, which feature an assortment of...less conventional news stories and informational quizzes.”

Lucy narrows her eyes, running the words over in her head. He can tell when she’s found him out when she lets out a loud laugh and hits him roughly on the shoulder.

“Ouch,” Anthony says, even though it doesn’t really hurt.

“You read _teen gossip magazines!_ ” Lucy exclaims. Anthony’s genuinely not sure whether or not he’s ever seen her happier. “I can’t believe it.”

“Not _only_ teen ones, just _mostly_ teen ones,” Anthony grumbles. He crosses his arms in a pout, which only serves to make Lucy even more gleeful. ‘“You have to swear on your journalistic integrity you don’t tell anyone else.”

“I promise I won't,” Lucy says, and it says a lot that Anthony believes her words even as she continues to snicker. 

She gets up, setting her mug of tea on her closed laptop (Anthony’s eye twitches and he thinks she must be incredibly brave), and then runs off into her bedroom. She’s gone for a minute at most, and she comes back with a magazine clutched in her hand. A very vivid, very glossy magazine.

“One of my sisters sent me this last week as a gag gift, and I haven’t read it yet. Can you tell me whether or not you recommend this issue?” Lucy asks using her professional interviewer voice. The cover is neon green, featuring the face of some Youtuber Anthony’s never seen before and proudly boasts in having over sixteen different tear-out posters.

“I’ve never read this one,” Anthony admits reluctantly.

“How delightful, we can read through it together,” Lucy says, sitting back down besides Anthony. She flips to the table of contents, and despite himself, Anthony leans over to get a better look.

“‘We can read ‘ _Jenn from AU-EN_ _spills the tea on her new relationships with Kris Dae_ ’, or maybe you’re more interested in _‘How to go from drab to fab for Valentine’s day in ten easy steps._ ’ Oh, that sounds excellent,” Lucy says dryly.

“No, wait. This one is perfect,” Anthony says, pointing at the first quiz on the list. Lucy flips to the marked page number with impressive speed.

“‘ _How will your first date with Quill Kipps go?_ ’” Lucy reads, her smirk palpable. 

“I will never understand why everyone finds him so appealing,” Anthony remarks mildly. “Still, it’s my duty as his friend to take this quiz to test its accuracy. For scientific research.”

“For scientific research,” Lucy agrees, and she spreads the magazine flat so that they can both see the spread. The whole thing is horrendously designed, with bright pink and blue bubble letters. Anthony kind of loves it. 

“First question: ‘ _What animal would you be?_ ’” Anthony reads outloud.

“I think a cat, so ‘C.’” Lucy says, and Anthony follows the flow of the quiz dutifully.

“I always thought I would be something like a giraffe, or a lemur. Something exotic,” Anthony says.

“I could see that. Question two: ‘ _Roux Morgan_ —’”

“Who’s that?”

“Some lingerie designer-slash-TikTok star.” 

“Ah, a classic double threat,” Anthony says, grinning. Lucy snorts, but keeps reading.

“' _Roux Morgan asks you to be in her newest line of lingerie. What’s your collection aesthetic like?_ ’ Isn’t this a damn magazine for fifteen year olds?”

“Well, let’s take the question seriously, Luce. Do I model collection A — _‘a totally ironic 90s sporty look with neons and plaid_ ’, or collection B, the ‘ _baby-doll, pastel-pink soft angelic_ ’ style? This is a very real problem for me,” Anthony says, doing his best to keep as poker-faced as possible and failing.

“No one suffers more than you,” Lucy agrees with more sarcasm than Anthony ever thought humanly possible. “But you’re forgetting the third option: ‘ _fringe-covered rainbow thongs for your hot girl summer._ ’” 

She seems to grow more embarrassed with every word she reads.

“If I must choose, then I suppose the first one,” Anthony says, unbothered by the question. He’s certain that he’s consumed hundreds of these over the past few years. This is now more or less how his brain processes language on a regular basis.

“Why that one?” Lucy asks.

“From what I know of Kipps, I think he’d like that the most,” Anthony says cheekily. Lucy looks away with a grumble of _“I didn’t need to know that,”_ and they keep going. 

They flitter through the rest of the questions, alternating who reads and who answers between them. They concur on their ideal date spot from the options (the Louvre) and their favorite genre of movie (historical drama.) Neither of them know how to answer the question that asks who their K-Pop bias is, so Lucy circles an answer at random.

Anthony reaches the bottom of the page.

“Ah, final question. ‘ _Your newest relationship is hashtag goals! What would you want the paparazzi to know about your love life?_ ’ Option A—”

“I don’t think I’d ever want to date anyone who paparazzis would care about,” Lucy says. “Can you imagine how exhausting a celebrity would be? I’ve seen stan Twitter. I like to keep my private life private.”

Lucy’s tone is lighthearted, but Anthony’s heart seems to have dropped rather suddenly into his torso. He suddenly feels very uncomfortable, his stomach rolling in a manner reminiscent of the time he had eaten some expired fish curry. Anthony takes a sip of tea to try and subdue the feeling, but the earl grey tastes almost sour in his mouth. 

Lucy remains oblivious, too busy flipping through to get the results of their quiz.

“We got mostly A’s,” Lucy says, holding the magazine up to the light to read the small text of the result bubble. “‘ _Your first date with London’s hottest young designer is a total flop_!’ Oh no!”

She grins toothily at Anthony, expecting him to play along. Anthony’s mind is somewhere else entirely (where, Anthony wishes he knew), but his body moves mechanically on its own and offers her a weak smile. Lucy goes back to reading.

“‘ _You and Quill Kipps just aren’t meant to be, but don’t worry! There’s potential that you can be great BFFs—and wouldn’t it be awesome to be friends with such a cool designer? Think of the custom dresses! While you might not be getting smooches, Quill will be sure to keep you in style_.’ Well, all things considered, this is pretty accurate. Isn’t that pretty much your relationship with Kipps?” Lucy asks. Anthony’s body decides that the appropriate response is to nod twice in agreement.

“Maybe I underestimated these magazines. This was a good waste of time,” Lucy says. She cranes her neck to check the time on her kitchen clock. “I can’t believe it’s already 7 PM. Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you that long.” 

“It’s fine,” Anthony says instinctively. For some reason he had expected his voice to sound hoarse, like a man dying in the desert, but it sounds as it always does: smooth, warm, confident. Something strange had hit him, but this situation was still salvageable. Maybe it had just been a fainting spell, or the early signs of a heart attack. Both possibilities sounded extremely appealing at the moment.

“Tell you what, I was going to order delivery anyways. You should stay for dinner,” Lucy says, criss-crossing her legs on the sofa and pulling out her phone.

There are a lot of things Anthony should say.

“I’m sorry, but I’m worried that I’m allergic to being around you because every time you look at me, my throat constricts, like it does when I eat coriander. Let me at least get some antihistamines, and then we’ll regroup.” 

Or:

“Thanks for the offer, Lucy, but I have to eat dinner with my sister. She does dangerous things when she’s left alone for too long. See you next week! I’ll be wearing shades so dark that I won’t be able to make out your face in a crowd. Don’t worry about why.” 

Or perhaps: 

“I can’t eat dinner with you, because there’s a corner of my mind that wants to stay here forever and I 1) don’t know why and 2) don’t _want_ to know why. You’re very funny and very clever and I need to go crawl under a bridge and stay there for ten years. At least.” 

But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he throws his arm around the back of the couch and leans over to get a closer look at Lucy’s screen.

What he does say is: 

“Sure, thanks. Do you prefer Chinese or Italian?”

* * *

“ _Heellooo,_ Anthony.”

Anthony, surprised by the sudden greeting, abruptly jumps up and says a few words that his mother would decidedly _not_ approve of. He whirls around, adrenaline racing, and only untenses when he sees his sister. Jessica is standing on the stairs, dressed in a purple robe and looking unbearably smug. 

“Don’t do that,” Anthony says warily. His sister just smiles and descends down the steps, taking Anthony’s jacket from him and hanging it on the rack.

“Do what? You must know, Tony, how worried I was when you didn’t come home. My baby brother, lost and alone in London! I nearly wept,” Jessica says dryly. “But then, I remembered that you had gone to visit Lucy Carlyle, and it all clicked into place.”

“We just ate dinner and watched that new murder mystery movie,” Anthony mutters, kicking his shoes off with more force than necessary. Jessica observes him as one listens to a toddler: indulgently and with vague disbelief. Anthony tries very hard to ignore her dark eyes on him. He makes it halfway up the stairs when Jessica calls after him:

“I’m not implying anything unsavory, my dear Anthony. I just wanted to let you know that I’m not quite ready to be an aunt yet, but—”

Anthony, flustered and fuming, turns around and makes a gesture that Celia Lockwood would have his head for, and then slinks into his bedroom to sulk.

Jessica doesn’t know what she’s talking about, he reasons, staring up at his ceiling as he waits for sleep to claim him. It had just been dinner and a movie. A perfectly platonic evening.

When the sun peeks through his curtains, his eyes are still trained on the ceiling, and sleep hasn’t graced him for a single minute.

* * *

**Jessica Lockwood for Fittes Magazine: On Life, Love, and her Second Oscar Nomination.**

**[cont from page 14]**

_“That’s pretty much how I’d sum up my career,” Lockwood concludes with a casual shrug of her shoulder. “I know I’ll have time to accomplish all that I want to, but isn’t it better for it to all happen sooner rather than later?”_

_Lockwood gives me a radiant smile. Between the beginning and end of her retrospection, she’s ordered me a new croissant to replace the one I dropped, waving my card away when I’d try to pay her back._

_“Don’t worry about it. It’s common courtesy, not a bribe,” she says._

_Courtesy has indeed always followed Lockwood. Despite being in the public eye since her seventeenth birthday, her relationships (both professional and romantic) have always been blessedly drama-free. When I ask her if she’s currently seeing anyone, Lockwood laughs._

_“Funny you should ask that. I am, actually. I’ve been on a few dates with someone I met at an industry event last November, although I’ve known of him before then. He’s exceptionally witty, and dating him has been full of surprises, which I love.”_

_“Anyone we would have heard of?” I ask._

_“Of course.”_

_I asked her if she would say who this mystery man was._

_“Oh, no. Where’s the fun in that?”_

_Lockwood then redirected the conversation to her front-row seats at next week’s Fashion Week in Paris, where her younger brother Anthony Lockwood is set to_ —

**[cont on page 25]**

* * *

Anthony sees the Parisian skyline for approximately three minutes before being frantically ushered into a car. It’s a black Mercedes-Benz with grey upholstery and dark, tinted windows. Someone else buckles him into the back seat, like he’s a toddler.

“Nice car,” Anthony says mildly. The driver doesn’t react to his comment, choosing instead to turn sharply out of Charles de Gaulle airport. All the hustle ends up being for naught; despite the driver’s aggressive persistence, Parisian traffic means that they end up at their destination a five minutes late. The scramble to get Anthony backstage is almost endearing in its familiarity.

“You’re late,” a man says the second Anthony gets out of the car, his tone more worried than accusatory. Anthony recognizes him as Henry, Holly’s personal assistant.

“My apologies, traffic was terrible,” Anthony says. PAs have a hard job, and even though he knows Holly and Kipps are nothing but fair to their employees, Anthony always feels bad when he makes their jobs harder. Henry shakes his head.

“You’re still the first model here,” Henry sighs. He guides Anthony down the street and to the backstage door, informing him that his luggage will be delivered to his hotel room, lunch will be served in about two hours, and that his dressing room is the third on the right. Henry then pushes him into the building, then sprints away to go help the caterers. 

Anthony finds his dressing room easily—although “room” is perhaps a bit generous. It’s a square of well-lit space, sectioned off by thick grey curtains on all sides. The more professional setup will come later, Anthony knows, when he goes through hair and makeup. For now, he gets settled in this space. Normally he’s sure he’d hear the sound of other men getting ready around him, but since no one else is here, the venue is eerily quiet.

Thankfully, that silence is quickly broken.

“Knock knock. Anthony, we’re coming in,” Holly’s voice says, familiar and sweet. She lifts aside the curtain and steps in, Kipps behind her. Holly looks immaculately made-up and dewy-faced, with her natural curls lush around her shoulders. Kipps looks like he hasn’t slept in a month.

It’s good to know that some things never change, Anthony thinks drolly.

“It’s always so good to see you,” Holly says, hanging a garment bag on the metal rack.

“Likewise, Hols,” Anthony says. He’s seen both of them many times in the past few months while getting ready for this show, but every big event feels a little more comfortable with them there. Even the frown line on Kipps’ freckled face is oddly reassuring. The stress has always shown more easily on him than Holly; Kipps’ hair is brushed back, as if he’d been running his fingers through it, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his biceps.

“We’re going to do our first fitting. Here’s your undershirt,” Kipps says, briskly handing Anthony a crisp white shirt. Anthony isn’t embarrassed about changing in front of people, but Kipps and Holly are busy organizing their design as he strips down to his pants. There’s a sense of rigid professionalism in the air that Anthony is grateful for, one that makes him being practically naked feel unawkward.

Kipps helps Anthony get dressed, his movements fluid and well practiced. In less than five minutes, Anthony’s suited up.

As Kipps goes to speak to a makeup artist, Anthony observes himself in the mirror.

The suit he’s wearing is made out of delicate crushed velvet, the shade dark but not completely black. The pants are made of the same material. The button-up shirt he wears underneath is a similar dark grey, but made out of cotton rather than velvet. There’s fine screen-printing onto the canvas of his suit; the bone-white ink stands out, detailing images of Hellenistic statues and rose windows.

“I designed this one,” Holly says proudly, handing Anthony a pair of glossy black shoes. 

“I figured, it’s much too subtle to be Kipps’ work. But I can bet that Kipps was the one who chose the theme,” Anthony says.

 _THE OTHER SIDE_ : _VISIONS OF THE GHOSTLY REALM_ is the official title for Quill&Munro’s Autumn/Winter collection. Anthony found the full title to be a bit of a mouthful, but he did like the theme. It's focused on the past and its ghostly present, visions of spectres and unearthly beings, with an abundance of dark colors and dramatic silhouettes. The more eccentric designs would come from the outfits Anthony would wear later in the evening (the ones designed by Kipps), but he appreciates the classic approach that Holly had taken with this suit.

“Let’s take the final measurements,” Kipps says upon his return, dropping a roll of measuring tape into Holly’s hand. Anthony’s ashamed to admit that he’s forgotten how good Holly is as a tailor; she’s been so successful in the business and publicity aspects of the fashion house that it takes this to remember that Holly had gotten her start in designing as well. She works fast, delicately pinning fabric into place. 

Holly lets out a noise of approval. “We don’t have to make any big alterations, just shorten the sleeves of the suit a bit. And maybe we should bring the fabric around your calves in so it’s not so loose. What do you think, Quill?”

Kipps squints at Anthony, and then nods. “Fine. Clemency told me that Lochlan’s ready, so I’m going to go find someone to fit him, then deal with Bickerstaff and Ward when they arrive.” Holly waves goodbye to him, her attention still wholly on Anthony.

Anthony stands still for her sake, but he keeps his eyes on where Kipps had been standing. After a minute of silence, Anthony speaks.

“You know he’s seeing my sister, right?”

“Oh yes, he told me after their first date. He doesn’t share much, you know, but he seems quite happy,” Holly says mildly. She’s tied her hair up out of her face, her curls now a tidy bun atop her head. “You aren’t opposed to it, are you?”

Anthony holds his arms out as Holly takes his wrist measurements. “No, I think I’m just...getting used to it. I didn’t expect them to hit it off the way that they did, but I do care for them both—don’t tell Kipps I said that—so I hope it works out.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re keeping an open mind about it,” Holly says brightly. “I think Kipps deserves someone nice after his previous relationships. Alexander was nice at first, but he turned out to be rather odd, and that girl Kipps dated before him was very rude.”

“You noticed that too? I thought she was, but I didn’t want to point it out.”

Holly laughs. “How considerate of you.”

“Jessica hasn’t dated anyone since she broke up with Emilia Payne. I think they’re still on good terms, though,” Anthony says. His sister is uniquely talented at smoothing over awkward situations—which, now that he thinks about it, is good for Kipps, seeing how unlucky he’s been in his previous relationships.

Holly works fast, the pair chattering about shared industry acquaintances and Holly’s upcoming wedding. The noise around them starts to pick up as other models begin arriving. The final adjustments of his suit are finished quickly, and Anthony’s lucky enough to grab lunch before everyone else. Holly waves Anthony to where the food is laid out, and then rushes off to help with another model’s tailoring.

After a quick lunch of flavorless bread and a spring salad, Anthony is directed towards hair and makeup. The air backstage is practically vibrating now, the space crowded and its people frantic. It’s a familiar atmosphere, one that brings Anthony a strange amount of calm. From his makeup chair, he can hear people setting up the runway on the other side of the wall. Hair and makeup artists descend upon him with a fervor, and he’s content to sit back and not get in the way of their work.

His short, dark hair is curled into a neat wavy swoop, brushed to the side, and then set with enough hairspray to fumigate a house. Most of the makeup on his face is subtle—a dab of concealer here, a contour line there—with the exception of his eyes. An artist applies a dark streak of black eyeshadow across each lid, precisely painted to look haphazardly done. It makes Anthony’s black eyes seem as dark as the void, all attention drawn now to the hollows of his face. He looks like a darker, more mysterious version of himself, as if someone had found him and pulled him out of the shadows. It’s not the look designers usually put him in (more often than not he’s portrayed as princely), but Anthony finds that he rather likes it.

After hair and makeup, Anthony puts the now-finished suit back on and is escorted to a proper waiting area. Time seems to have escaped him; it’s much later in the afternoon than he thought, and the show’s set to start soon.

There are other models lined up near him, and they give Anthony cordial waves of acknowledgement, and a few greet him by name. Once he gets settled into place, however, none of them talk. Every person is too focused on their own mental preparations.

Anthony pokes his head out from behind the black velvet curtains (which he really shouldn’t be doing, but he’s pretty sure nothing’s going on outside), and the sight of the venue takes his breath away.

Quill&Munro is having their fashion show at the Palais Garnier, the historic 19th century opera house. It’s a crown jewel of Paris for a reason; the Beaux-Arts architecture is lush and darkly romantic, and candle-lit chandeliers hang from the ceiling. They’re not on the main stage of the opera house. Anthony’s not too familiar with the layout of the building, but he’s pretty sure they’re in one of the smaller foyers. Everything is white marble and gilt; with the only light source being the candles and natural light coming from the windows, the room is plunged into an opulent sort of shadow. The backstage area where Anthony had been preparing must have been a temporary building specifically set up for this event—no one, of course, would want to spray on self-tanner only a meter away from a Paul Baudry painting.

There, amidst the rows of plastic seats, are Holly and Kipps in deep discussion. They’ve both changed into their outfits for the evening. Being designers and not models, they aren’t required to dress up to theme, but the pair seem to have done so anyways.

It seems not even this show’s mournful and otherworldly theme could deter Holly from wearing pink, although it is admittedly less girlish than normal. Her dress is made of delicate metallic chiffon in pale rose gold, the material cinched around her waist by a simple gold band. The fabric floats around her ankles as she walks, giving her a rather mystical appearance. Around her shoulders is a sheer robe in a matching hue with embroidered flowers and soft fur cuffs. Her hair is brushed down around her shoulders and Holly wears a gold circlet around her head, the overall effect more fae than ghost. It suits her though. Anthony can’t imagine Holly in stark blacks and heavy velvets, the likes of which Kipps is wearing.

Kipps’ silhouette is a solid mass of black, dark enough that it takes a few seconds of staring to make sense of his outfit. It’s a cloak, Anthony realizes, made up of hundreds (if not thousands) of sleek black feathers. The cloak is so long that it trails on the ground, the weight of its material grounding Kipps just as Holly’s dress lifts her up. As Kipps walks around, the feathers catch light and reflect a kaleidoscope of colors, and then quiet back down to plain black as he moves back into the shadow. It’s a neat effect, although Anthony does wonder how Kipps isn’t collapsing under the weight of the cloak. Kipps is wearing a circlet as well, his silver rather than gold.

Kipps catches Anthony’s eye and the shorter man frowns, wordlessly waving Anthony away. Anthony ducks back behind the curtains, slightly sheepish at having been caught.

No matter—a PA comes around to tell them to quiet down, as the doors are soon opening for seating. His sister will be there in the front row. The press will be there as well, of course. A certain face flickers across his mind at the thought, but it’s quickly pushed aside as the lights dim and the show begins. 

Off to work.

* * *

**Willie Addams @souclkrusher2· 16m**

chanel’s fashion show was such a snoozefest. like we get it okay, u like tweed and ur founder boned nazis. anyways, follow 4 more scathing fashion hot takes from my living room couch.

  
  


**fatima🌹 @fatiIIIma· 15m**

I wanna say what an inspiration @hollymunro is to her fellow sapphic woc?? I love her and would kill for she. Also i saw her dress and i nearly died!!! 

  
  


**Blade 🍀 COMMISSIONS OPEN @bladeships· 15m**

_Replying to @fatIIIma_ _  
__  
_IKR? Also did u see flo bones speaking french b4 the show...ma’am i’m Gay.,,

  
  


**FITTES @FITTESmagazine✔️ · 12m**

Check out live coverage of this year’s Autumn/Winter fashion week happening right now in Paris at www.fittes.co.uk/paris-aw-20-LIVE. Right now? Quill&Munro. For French coverage, follow @FITTES_FR.

  
  


**🤡🤡🤡 @warm3cheeto · 11m**

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD WENT FROM SOFT BOY TO GOTH BOY FOR THIS SHOW AND I’M HERE FOR IT! ZADDY!!!

**Marie Cou @couscousin · 11m**

Can we give a shout-out to @lucycwrites and @FITTESmagazine for their amazing coverage of the shows so far? It’s some seriously good stuff.

* * *

Somehow, five days have passed in the blink of an eye. Every day is a cycle: waking up in his hotel room at an ungodly hour (the earliest thus far has been 5 AM), making his way to a show, and slipping into another outfit. Quill&Munro isn’t the only brand Anthony models for—it’s just the only one he has a long-term contract with, and the brand that most people associate him with. Still, throughout the week, Anthony finds himself darting from Chanel, to Givenchy, to Dior. Eventually he finds himself where he is now: backstage for his last show of Paris Fashion week, Quill&Munro’s couture collection.

It’s held in the same foyer of the Palais Garnier as the first show had been, but it takes place later in the day. Because of this, hundreds of white candles are set up around the hall—electric, Anthony knows, because the dripping wax and open flame would be a health and safety nightmare, but the impression is still rather impressive.

Anthony gets to the venue earlier than normal, having cleared out the rest of the day’s schedule to devote to this show. Despite his punctuality, his final outfit ends up being comprised of many delicate parts and pieces that he still winds up missing lunch. Anthony resigns himself to a nearly-empty stomach—he’s sure he still has a fiber bar somewhere in his bag.

He’s digging through his dressing room for the fiber bar (as carefully as possible as to not crease his clothing) when he hears someone call his name. 

Anthony straightens up to his full height and is both stunned and not at all surprised to see Lucy walking towards him. She’s waving, a lanyard hanging from her neck that proudly reads “PRESS PASS.” Lucy does a double take as she gets closer to Anthony, and he doesn’t blame her. His appearance is rather...eccentric, to say the least. Still, Lucy seems to quickly shake off any bemusement.

“I was hoping I would find you here,” Lucy smiles warmly, and for a second Anthony thinks she’s going to hug him. She doesn’t, which makes sense because wrinkling his outfit is the last thing anyone would want. And they’ve also never hugged before, so it wouldn’t make a grand amount of sense to start now.

“Congratulations, you’ve done it,” Anthony says, and he returns her smile. “This must have been a busy week for you.”

Lucy waves him off. “For both of us, you mean. I’m tempted to ask if those under eye bags are _really_ the result of makeup.”

She’s joking, of course. Anthony’s skin doesn’t do silly things like sallow or blemish. He’s had skin like marble since he was born.

Still, her comment makes him confusingly self-conscious. Anthony catches sight of himself in a mirror behind Lucy, and he can definitely see what threw her off: his eyes have black kohl smudged around them and his features have all been sharpened by contour, tipping his cheekbones from “chiseled” to “gaunt.” He looks like a raccoon with amazing bone structure.

In comparison, Lucy looks refreshingly normal. She’s dressed in slacks and a turtleneck, her hair tied into a ponytail. She’s rolled her sleeves up, and Anthony rather likes the look; it makes her look hard-at-work and powerful.

Anthony tears his gaze away from her bare forearms when Lucy clears her throat. “Look, I know that seeing someone dressed so drably must be completely foreign to you at this point of the week, but I’ll have you know this sweater is still—”

“Oh, not at all! I think you look nice,” Anthony says hastily. He feels a flush blooming on his face and is suddenly grateful for the ten layers of foundation he’s currently wearing. Lucy chuckles.

“I’m just yanking your chain,” she says. “You look very nice too. Well, in a haunted, ‘Prince of the dead’ way.” 

“I’ll let Kipps know you think so. Did you need something from me? I’d be glad to do an interview for my favorite journalist, of course,” Anthony relaxes, throwing in a wink for good measure. “You might have to make it fast, though. I think the show starts in twenty minutes.”

Lucy shakes her head. “No, actually, I got you something—One mo’,” She digs through her tote bag, blowing her fringe out of her eyes as she rummages. Lucy pulls out a white bakery bag, a familiar stamped logo on the front. 

“Those are from Café Adelaide! That’s my favorite—”

“Bakery?”

“ _Patisserie_.”

Lucy rolls her eyes. “Same thing.”

Anthony decides to ignore that and takes a hesitant step closer, eyeing the bag as a miser eyes gold. “Thank you, truly. How did you know I liked them?”

“You told me, remember? Or—well, you mentioned it once,” Lucy says. Anthony blinks. Did he? He can’t remember when he might have. He knows he talks a lot, though, so it’s entirely possible that he did and just forgot.

She opens the sticker seal and a delicious buttery scent comes out of it. Anthony’s lack of lunch becomes even more painfully felt.

“Here, I got four so we can share. I know that _pain au chocolat_ isn’t really a full meal, but George’s told me before how bland backstage lunches can be, and I figured you wouldn’t have had the time to go to the bakery between shows,” Lucy says. Anthony’s heart flutters and he makes an embarrassing coughing noise as his words get caught in his throat. He’s touched, honestly. The fact that she remembered an off-hand comment and went through this trouble to get him his favorite pastry makes him feel a bit weak at the knees. 

Of course, that could also be the hunger talking.

Anthony reaches out for one, and then pulls his hand back; he’s still wearing his full ensemble, which includes a pair of black leather gloves that really shouldn’t have butter smeared all over them. He can feel Lucy’s amused gaze on him as he carefully takes off both gloves finger by finger and sets them aside.

“Do you have a napkin, or a paper towel of some sort?” Anthony asks, fingers hovering over the paper bag. He doesn’t like eating while dressed in runway-ready clothing, always worried about getting them dirty, but he’s _famished_ and three seconds away from grabbing the bag and swallowing it whole, paper and all.

Lucy digs into her pants’ pocket and pulls out a napkin. “Here, let me.”

She adjusts her bag higher on her shoulders and gestures for Anthony to bend down. He does, confused. Lucy steps close—they’re more or less eye level, now—pulls at his high collar with one hand and shakes open the napkin with the other. She tucks a corner of the napkin into his collar and smooths it out with her palms, the warm pressure still felt through all the layers of his outfit. Anthony stands back up straight and looks down at his chest.

“You’ve given me a bib,” Anthony deadpans.

“ _Au contraire, mon frere,_ ” Lucy smirks. Her French is horrible. “It’s _haute couture_.”

Anthony rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling all the same. He snatches the paper bag from Lucy (“Hey!” she says, pretending to be upset) and takes a _pain au chocolat_ out. It’s even more delicious than he remembered: layers of buttery pastry, bitter chocolate, and sweet sugar glaze. They’re still warm.

He’s in the middle of his second one when he realizes Lucy is still smirking at him. “What?” he asks. Hopefully, there aren’t any crumbs on his face. Anthony’s very good at eating with minimal damage to his makeup, but he might have gotten careless.

Lucy makes frames with her fingers, squinting at Anthony through it. “I’m just figuring my next headline. How do you feel about ‘Supermodel Anthony Lockwood savagely rips apart innocent pastry like a dog?’”

“Not your best work,” Anthony says. “How about ‘Journalist lures debonair model into a false sense of security, only to immediately mock him?’”

“Too much of a run-sentence. I wouldn’t go into writing anytime soon if I were you,” Lucy says. Anthony’s about to respond with a comeback of his own when a PA comes up to Lucy and informs her that the show’s about to start.

“I should go take my seat,” Lucy says. Anthony hands the pastry bag back back to Lucy, almost more sorry to see it go than her.

“Thank you for stopping by, and for the pastries,” Anthony says. “It was nice to see you before the show.”

Lucy, who had been tucking her things back into her bag, stops abruptly at his words. She looks up at him with an expression that he’s seen on her before, one that he still can’t read: her brows knit together, lips pursed slightly, eyes looking at his chin rather than meeting his gaze. Lucy opens her mouth and seems to teeter on the edge of saying something, but seems to decide against it.

“Break a leg,” she says, and then walks out the door she came in. 

* * *

Anthony’s outfit for the final show is a tricky thing. It’s a black turtleneck under a charcoal-grey vest, which itself is under a heavy black overcoat that falls to his knees. Some sort of black chiffon is sewed to his coat’s epaulettes, the fabric flowing behind him like a cape as he walks. It’s honestly a bit of a hassle to move around with it, but he has to admit that the effect is worth it. His pants and shoes are relatively simple: both black and way too tight. The shoes are glossy, with a dramatic taper at the toe. Atop his neatly-groomed head sits a halo crown decorated with stars, its silver metal glinting as he walks. 

Thankfully, he hadn’t been wearing the crown when Lucy had visited him backstage. He’s pretty sure he would have accidentally poked her in the eye with it.

The outfit is already very warm and heavy; with the (thankfully, butter-free) gloves, Anthony’s sweltering under the artificial candlelight. Still, he grins and bears it—not literally, as smiling would ruin the dark mystical theme—and before he knows it, Paris Fashion Week is officially complete.

* * *

“Anthony!”

Anthony turns around. He’s removed all of the cosmetics and changed into a casual outfit, and somehow his sister’s found him before he’s even left the building. Jessica beams at him and throws her arms around him, giving him a hug that’s as comforting as it is awkward. Sibling hugs are weird.

“That was a lot of fun, wasn’t it?” Jessica says. “You looked very dapper as a ghost king. Or whatever you were supposed to be.”

“Thank you.”

Jessica laughs, as if she hadn’t expected him to accept her compliment (and now Anthony’s not sure it was even a compliment), and she leads him away from the commotion of the Palais Garnier. 

“I got you a present, Tony. Two surprise guests!” Jessica says, winking. Anthony stares past his sister and sees two people standing near the curb. The street’s not brightly lit, but Anthony would recognize their silhouettes anywhere.

Jessica nudges him. “Guess who they are.”

“Let’s see—two people who we both know, who both happen to live in France...I’ll really have to wrack my brain for this one,” Anthony says. His sister rolls her eyes with affection.

“Spoilsport.”

Anthony chuckles. “It would be more of a guessing game if the ‘surprise guests’ weren’t the same people every time.”

Still, his stride quickens, and he smiles widely and genuinely when he’s finally face-to-face with the couple.

“Mum!” Anthony greets. “Dad!”

Anthony’s parents had both aged gracefully in the years since retirement. Celia Lockwood stands a few inches shorter than her daughter, and carries herself with a youthful zest for life. Her hair, which had been a deep chestnut color in her younger years, is now streaked with white, but it had kept its natural curl. Donald Leong-Lockwood is as tall and skinny as ever, his hair still full and dark (Hollywood stylists envied deeply what Donald had naturally), standing serenely besides his wife. He had trimmed his moustache and gotten new glasses since Anthony had seen him over Christmas, he otherwise looks the same.

Celia greets her son with an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek, and Donald embraces Anthony.

“Dear, you were amazing,” Celia gushes, beaming at her son. “You looked simply radiant. I was thinking you seemed to be getting paler, but that only made you look even more striking in black. Still, you must promise me that you’ll go outside more.” 

“My rose, they still live in London. Going outside won’t change much,” Donald says mildly.

“Well I suppose between my English coloring and your temperament, they never were really going to become bronzed athletes. But still! You used to love outdoor sports when you were little,” Celia says.

“Mum,” Anthony groans. No one can really embarrass him in record time like his mother can. Still, he accepts another kiss on the cheek and even stoops over to let Celia fix his hair to her liking. Jessica is content to watch the interactions from the side—she must have had her own reunion with them before the show tonight.

“We were thinking of going to dinner tonight at Les Âmes tonight,” Donald says, watching Celia fret over their son with quiet amusement. “Would you be free?”

“What? Of course,” Anthony says, bewildered. “You’re my parents. What could I possibly skip dinner for?”

“We’re just honored and touched that international superstar Anthony Lockwood _deigns_ to have dinner with us,” Jessica teases.

“Jessica,” Donald says.

“Sorry, dad.”

They pile into a rental car: Celia in the driver’s seat with Donald sitting beside her, and Anthony and Jessica in the back. Anthony feels six-year-old again, content to listen to his father tell a story about their most recent trip to Indonesia while Jessica sticks her head out the window. 

The restaurant is a small, charming place tucked away in a corner of the city. There are a few other diners, locals all Anthony’s parent’s age who don’t bat an eye when the Lockwood family is seated. Their waiter, however, turns out to be a fan of Donald’s filmography and insists that the restaurant cover their bill. Donald politely declines, but is glad to autograph the man’s notepad and apron. After much hand-shaking and excited babble, the waiter finally takes their orders and practically skips back into the kitchen.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Donald says, slightly embarrassed from the attention. His wife rolls her eyes, not without fondness.

“Please, Donald. Your father does this all the time,” Celia says to her children. “Once a week for the past thirty years or so, someone stops him in public to praise him, and it still manages to catch him off guard.”

Donald fidgets with his glasses. “Dear, I really don’t think I’m very recognizable. Besides, it’s the editors and actors that should be getting attention, not me. If anyone should be fawned over, it’s you—”

This discussion has happened more times throughout Anthony’s life than he can count, and he thinks it’s just something his parents have grown comfortable and familiar with. Their own form of flirting, perhaps.

Anthony pulls a face at that thought.

Thankfully, it doesn’t go on for much longer. They reach an impasse and let the subject drop. Celia takes a sip of her wine.

“Jessica, darling, what is on your eyes?” Celia asks, not unkindly. Jessica raises a hand to her face, uncharacteristically self-conscious under her mother’s eye.

“It’s glitter eyeshadow,” Jessica says, and then, hesitantly: “Is it too much?”

“Not at all! I rather like it. It reminds me of the eighties. I had no idea it was back in fashion,” Celia says. Jessica beams, and with them both smiling, it’s remarkable how much they look like each other. 

“Oh! Well, there’s this palette I love—”

The evening carries on in pleasant conversation. The food is delicious and very rich, and Anthony’s glad to be free of health-conscious eating for the evening. Donald and Celia talk a bit about their life in Marseille: apparently Donald has taken up bird-watching and Celia’s joined a water-skiing club. It’s altogether too easy to imagine his aging mother gleefully skating across the water, and the mental image makes Anthony laugh. Donald brings up some sort of convoluted legal scandal going on in Manchester. Jessica, who double-majored in political science and criminal justice in university, latches onto the subject with great interest. Anthony, who had majored in classics, tunes most of it out. 

Eventually their entrees are cleared away and dessert is brought out.

“I love _tarte tatin_ ,” Jessica sighs happily. She passes Anthony the largest slice. “You must have missed sweets this whole week. I remember how bland fashion week meals are.”

Anthony is happy to have the largest slice, but he feels an odd sense of guilt.

“Actually, I had some pastries before the show today,” he says, nevertheless taking the plate form Jessica. And then, feeling particularly bold, he continues. “Lucy was kind enough to deliver some _pain au chocolat_ when she stopped by backstage.”

“Chocolate croissants?” Jessica asks.

“ _Are_ they the same thing as croissants?”

“I don’t know,” Jessica says.

Celia tilts her head, gazing curiously at her son.

“Who’s Lucy, dear?” she asks.

Anthony speaks up before Jessica can open her mouth and say anything inaccurate or damning. “A fashion journalist with Fittes. She’s relatively new, but we’ve become friends. Jessica and I both.”

He adds that last part hurriedly. He knows Jessica and Lucy get along, but calling them friends would be a bit of a stretch. Still, he hopes it shakes off any further questions his parents have. They do let the subject drop, but instead of feeling relieved, Anthony feels oddly...disappointed. As if he had been waiting for them to ask if he and Lucy were anything more. He had been gearing himself up to deny it, all without even noticing.

It’s strange, and Anthony desperately wants to make sense of it. He feels like he’s running away from something that’s quickly gaining speed, something that’s been matching his pace slowly but surely for the past few weeks. He’s lost in his thoughts all the way to the end of the meal, and even past that when his family pays the check.

“Anthony,” his father says, and his voice sounds ages away. “We were thinking of taking a walk around before going back to the hotel. Is that alright?”

“Hm? Sure, of course,” Anthony says, barely registering his father’s words. He trots out after his family and into the street, now busy with late-night shoppers and fellow restaurant goers. The sky is an inky black, the city lights too bright for any stars to be visible above. They walk along the murky Seine. Anthony lags behind, gaze drifting over a guitarist on the street, over the illuminated apartment buildings, over a girl talking loudly on her phone. From somewhere, maybe down the street, he smells something warm and heady and he thinks, inexplicably, of the quirk of Lucy’s mouth.

Anthony loves her.

The realization blooms in his head, all at once sudden and subtle and intoxicating. He’s loved her for the last few days, or maybe weeks, or maybe longer—already past the state of _falling_. No, he’s been slipping for ages now and has only now realized it, eyes open seconds before his plummeting body hits the ground. He feels as if he’s finally caught up with himself; his heart, tired of running, has given in to the truth.

He loves her.

Anthony stops in place, staring out across the river’s dark waters. There, on the opposite bank, are a line of glimmering hotels. He imagines she’s in one of their rooms; maybe fast asleep, or perhaps still awake and working on an article into the late hours of the evening. He wants to know which one it is.

Anthony takes a step towards the river, his knees brushing up against the railing. His shoulders start shaking and it takes him a second to realize why: he’s _laughing_ , the sound bubbling up from his chest and into the air around him. He wonders: if he shouted out for her, would his voice carry over the water and reach her? Would she come out on a balcony and call back to him? 

He thinks of her stubbornness and her wit, of her in her oversized brown coat and worn brogues. He thinks of her hand, gently brushing against his hair. She’s kind and exceptional, more than she thinks herself to be. And he loves her.

And Anthony knows why he hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself.

He won’t date her. It’s not even an option for him. He has people _expecting_ things of him, has every aspect of his personal life under tight scrutiny. If they ever started seeing each other, Anthony would only drag Lucy down with him. Everything about her life and her appearance would be open for the public; that’s the lifestyle he’s chosen for himself, but taking her with him would be too cruel. He’s not willing to give up his popularity for a quieter existence either. He’s selfish.

Anthony knows that Lucy doesn’t return his feelings. She’s much too clever for him, too pragmatic. Their conversation over that stupid magazine quiz had only cemented his suspicions. Of course she wouldn’t want to date someone in the public eye. 

But they’re friends. Why hadn’t that been enough for him?

He’s equal parts overjoyed and miserable. The wind picks up slightly, stirring his hair and cooling the burning on Anthony’s face. His family has realized that he’s stopped and now calls out to him, their voices carrying over.

He loves her, yes, but it’s pointless.

Anthony gives him one more second by the river—one extra heartbeat imagining her—before he gingerly lifts his hands off of the railing. He’d been digging his fingers into the stone and hadn’t even noticed.

Then, he steps away and lets the dream go.

“Sorry, I thought I recognized someone on the other bank,” Anthony says, catching up with his family. None of them seem to think anything of it.

“I was just thinking about how much the weather reminded me of our winter in Athens. When you were nine, remember?” Celia asks.

“Yes, and somehow the subject shifted to Plato,” Donald says.

“Plato’s Republic!” Jessica adds, grinning at Anthony. He groans.

“You can’t use Jessica as a source of information for that book, dad. You know she’s only read it that once in first year—”

The siblings begin to bicker over the subject, Donald and Celia watching them in amusement. At the end of the night, his parents drop him off at his hotel with a kiss on the cheek and wide smiles, and as they leave, Anthony lets him pretend that everything is normal.

* * *

He knocks on the door before he can second guess himself.

“Lucy!” Anthony says, grinning up at her. She’s clad in corgi-print pajamas and fuzzy slippers, her hair dented on one side. It’s almost one PM, but she’s clearly just rolled out of bed.

“A’th’ny,” Lucy says, stammering his name out though a yawn. Still, she lets him into her flat.

“Late night last night?” Anthony asks.

“Yeah. It’s been a week but my body still isn’t used to a regular schedule,” Lucy says, running a hand through her hair. “Did you need something?”

Anthony offers a cardboard box out to Lucy. “I wanted to pay you back for the pastries in Paris. Here: scones, jam, and clotted cream from MacGuffin’s.”

Lucy lets out a pleased noise. “Thanks. You know, I actually really liked the area around that bakery. You really have to take me around properly the next time we’re in Paris.”

“Next time?”

“Of course.” Lucy smiles at him, and Anthony feels the resolve he had armored himself with crumble like dry pottery.

“What do you mean by of course?” Anthony asks, voice soft.

Lucy tilts her head. “The next time we’re both working there together.”

“Ah, yes,” Anthony says. “Of course.”

Lucy’s fingers brush his as she takes the box, and maybe it’s his fevered imagination, but they linger there a second longer than they have to. The sunlight streaming through the window lights her brown hair gold, and Anthony wonders how much more of this he can take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was fun. :) 
> 
> Finally, the slow, rusting cogs in Anthony's brains are turning. Too bad things won't be getting any easier for him. Strap yourself in, this chapter's notes are long (just like the chapter itself - 10k!!)
> 
> Notes:  
> \- ‘Fittes Manual for Trend-hunters’ is a parody of Marissa's book in canon, 'Fittes Manual for Ghost-hunters.' In this fic, she's dead-dead, the Penelope running Fittes is the real Penelope. Celia worked with Marissa before she retired.  
> \- Pain au chocolat are delicious flaky chocolate bread pastries. Some countries call them chocolate croissants, and some don't.  
> \- I didn't think to write a note about characters' ethnicities (they're not really the core of this fic), but I had someone ask me on tumblr what everyone's ethnicity was, so I figured I'd include it here. Anthony and Jessica are half-Cantonese, Half-English (Donald is from Hong Kong, which was a British territory until 1997). Quill, Kat, and George are English. Flo is French, English, and Jewish. Holly is Pakistani and Nigerian. Lucy is *waves hand and makes vague sounds* They all have British nationality. You're free to imagine them differently-These are my own interpretations of these characters.  
> \- The first chapter of this fic was also a Fashion Week fic, but it was the Spring/Summer showcase in London. I wasn't sure if Quill&Munro (an English brand) would ever present in Paris, but I did some digging and found enough companies showcasing across country lines that I decided to set it in Paris.  
> \- Speaking of seasons: this chapter is set in early February, and they're showcasing Autumn/Winter couture. Runway styles are usually planned months, if not years in advance.  
> \- I couldn't not make the theme of the week "the Other Side." Thankfully, this "Other Side" has a lot more crushed velvet and slinky suits than the one in canon.  
> \- There was originally a George and Anthony lunch scene that I finished, but I cut it because its placement was weird. Sorry George.
> 
> Outfits:
> 
> Lucy in her apartment, from Sézane  
> 
> 
> Anthony's black suit from Holly (Dolce & Gabbana 2014)  
> 
> 
> Holly's rose-gold fae outfit. (Elie Saab 2018)  
> 
> 
> Quill's feathery cloak - because he wears a big feather cloak in canon already, and this is a fashion fic. ;)  
> 
> 
> Anthony's dramatic suit on the last night of fashion week is actually my own design! I made a sketch of it that you can see [here on my tumblr.](https://elindadraws.tumblr.com/post/617706054119227392/sketches-i-did-while-plotting-out-chapter-6-of)
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Writing this has been a bright spot in my life at home, and I hope that reading it will be one for you too. If you feel so inclined, leave a comment down below, and I'll see you next chapter! Do I hear wedding bells...?


	7. Malibu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are two scenes where music is involved. I don't like name-dropping songs in my stories because I don't want to bet that everyone can immediately remember the tune on demand, but if you'd like to listen to the specific songs I had in mind:  
> -[For the aisle walk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ElUiEgki7_I%5D)  
> -[For the classic rock-n-roll song that comes on](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oxwAB3SECtc%5D)
> 
> Thanks and all my love and support to @dumbledoreslingerie! Thanks for being a great beta even during your projects, and thanks for keeping a secret. ;)

It takes a second for Anthony to take in the full charm of the venue.

He hadn’t expected Holly to pick anything less than _majestic_ , of course, but she’s still outdone herself. The estate around them stretches on for miles, grassy hills to the east, the Pacific coast to the west. Quite literally—the wedding altar is outdoors and stands on a lush cliffside overlooking the ocean, close enough to hear waves and smell the salt-spray in the air. There are rows of mahogany-wood chairs with white cushions, pale gossamer draped over the backs of every seat. Everything in the world seems much more colorful than normal: the sky more blue, the grass more green, and the whites of the altar extra crisp.

“Holly really took her color scheme to heart, didn’t she?” Jessica says as she catches up to Anthony.

“' _Pastel formal. No white, black or shades of grey, with the exception of dress shirts or shoes_ ’,” Anthony says, reciting what had been on their invitation. “Well, she has always been very particular with these kinds of things.”

The brides, of course, are nowhere in sight, but there are other guests being led to their seats or conversing amongst themselves. True to the dress code, the collection of outfits out on the lawn are all colorful and Easter Sunday-esque. Jessica is wearing marigold yellow, Anthony sage green. Anthony can’t help but think that they look like the stem and petal ends of a flower.

They find their seats easily, at the end of the third row. To Anthony’s right is Jessica, and to his left, one of Kat’s cousins who he’s never met but seems nice enough. On the seat of each chair is a small bouquet of lavender stems bound by white silk. Anthony holds them up; the flowers are real and fresh, their sweet scent mingling in with the ocean air. Underneath the bouquet is a packet of dried flowers and a wedding program on buttery white paper. It looks handwritten.

“Do you reckon Holly calligraphed all of these herself?” Anthony asks, looking over to where Jessica is reading her over own program.

“It looks like it,” Jessica says. “How charming.”

The wedding’s not set to begin for another half-hour or so, but the majority of guests seem to have already arrived. The first row is reserved for the bridal party and immediate family; there’s a dark skinned woman in a fashionable headscarf who _must_ be Holly’s mother conversing with Kat’s pale, soft-spoken father. There are quite a few people that Anthony recognizes from the industry and he greets them all, catching up between the aisles of chairs. George and Flo arrive arm-in-arm (and on time!), both looking unusually put together. George in a simple tan suit, Flo in a mauve maxi dress that can only be described as “bohemian tablecloth chic.” George’s hair is slightly less rumpled than normal, and Flo’s hair falls in messy waves around her freckled shoulders.

Flo cackles when she catches Anthony’s eye and dips into a mock curtsy, tossing up the hem of her dress. “Like what you see?” she says, fluttering her eyelashes. “Too bad, I’m taken.”

She laces her fingers in with George’s and snickers loudly at Anthony’s expression.

“You do look very nice, Flo. When I’m weeping over my pillow tonight, be assured that it will be because of you,” Anthony quips. He’s still not entirely sure how to read Flo, but he’s gotten more comfortable with her off-beat personality throughout the months. 

“I see you’ve decided to lean into your inevitable future as a tree,” Flo says. “You’ve always had the height, but now you’ve added greenery. I like it.”

Anthony adjusts his cufflinks; his suit is tight and herringboned, with a matching waistcoat and silk tie, a pressed white dress shirt underneath. He’s glad that Malibu’s spring weather is temperate enough that he feels comfortable in so many snug layers.

“Thank you. It’s not my usual color, but I think it works rather well—” Anthony says.

“I think my words are going to his head, George,” Flo stage-whispers. Anthony rolls his eyes at Flo’s attempt to rile him up, but decides not to respond directly.

“So, George, enlighten me—tan?”

“One might consider tan a pastel brown,” George says.

“If one would truly like to reach for an excuse to not buy a new suit, one might,” Anthony says mildly. George shrugs in admission, smiling slightly. The rest of the conversation is far more mundane with minimal banter (with Flo involved, it would be impossible to have absolutely _no_ banter.) Apparently Flo’s in talks to direct an adaptation of an Agatha Christie novel, and George just came back from a photography trip to Scotland. They talk for a few more minutes until Flo realizes she left her purse unattended by their seats, and rushes off with the promise to talk later.

Anthony bids them farewell and checks the time on his watch; only ten minutes until the ceremony’s set to begin, and the string quartet’s just finished setting up. He makes his way down the aisle to his seat, but is stopped when he feels a tap on his shoulder.

He turns around and comes face-to-face with Lucy Carlyle.

“Hi,” she says, slightly breathless. She’s dressed in a delicate shade of cloudy blue, her dress’ neckline plunging into an eye-catching ‘v’ over her bare collarbones. Her dress is tea-length and asymmetrical, and whatever material it's made of (chiffon, or maybe silk) flutters slightly in the wind. Anthony always thought that Lucy was pretty (albeit in an unconventional way), but now, Lucy seems to radiate beauty itself.

Anthony wants to crawl into the mountains and die.

“Wow, I almost didn’t recognize you. You kind of look like a dapper, overgrown blade of grass,” Lucy jokes.

“You look absolutely delightful,” Anthony says instinctively, and then immediately mentally kicks himself. Lucy seems surprised at the abruptness of his words and awkwardly chuckles, tucking a neatly curled strand of hair behind her ears.

“Thank you. That means a lot coming from you,” Lucy says.

Anthony smiles his most winning, response-avoiding smile and tries to sort out what the _hell_ that could possibly mean. Because he’s a model? Or perhaps because he was the one who took her shopping in San Francisco?

After he had realized the depths of his feelings for her, Anthony had sworn to continue on as if nothing had happened. The past month had been a blend of suppression and yearning, with his feelings for her becoming harder to ignore with every text, no matter how mundane. Lucy had sent him a video of her redoing the grout in her bathroom, and Anthony had practically swooned at the domesticity of it. He’s managed to keep everything together well enough when they’re out together, but swallowing all of his feelings is starting to ache.

Lucy blinks up at him, confused, and Anthony realizes he’s completely tuned out everything she’s said in his distracted state. He wants to run off the cliff. He wants to kiss her.

“Sorry, can you repeat that?” Anthony says. Lucy huffs in annoyance, but does so anyways.

“It wasn’t anything major. I was just hoping that the entire wedding isn’t on grass,” Lucy says, and she gestures down to her shoes. She’s wearing a pair of white flats that are practically begging to be grass stained. 

Anthony hums. “If they do, then I’ll swap shoes with you. They might go with my suit. I’m sure we’re around the same size.”

“Oh yes, definitely.”

They smile at each other; Anthony’s hands are folded behind his back, and Lucy’s are clasped together at her front. They’re only a pace or so apart, but neither make any movement to reach out for the other. _Why would they?_ Anthony asks himself. Still, his mind wanders to the image of George and Flo, arm-in-arm, and his stomach flops in a feeling of what he thinks is resentment. 

Well, that’s not very nice of him.

Out of the corner of his eye Anthony sees Jessica approaching them. Anthony has to physically restrain himself from kowtowing to the ground and thanking her for being a welcome distraction.

“Lucy, it’s wonderful to see you again. You look amazing. I heard you were nominated for your first award last week!” Jessica says. Lucy smiles in response, a little bashful.

“Well, my whole section was nominated together, actually, but it’s still exciting,” Lucy says.

“Do you know who’s going to be reporting the Met Gala?” Jessica asks.

“Oh—I am,” Lucy says.

Jessica beams. “Exciting! It’s going to be Anthony’s first time attending.”

Anthony stands off to the side as the two women catch up, fidgeting with his cuff links. Lucy compliments Jessica’s dress (“I’d never be able to pull off such a high slit.”) and Jessica gushes over Lucy’s makeup (“I’d kill for your natural eyebrows, really.”). Their conversation is enthusiastic, but still has the veneer of professionalism over it. Lucy doesn’t crack any of the endearingly awkward jokes she tries with Anthony. When Jessica compliments Lucy’s dress, there’s no mention of “That means a lot, coming from you.” Lucy simply smiles and thanks her.

Anthony wonders why he’s noticing all of this to begin with.

Jessica checks the time on her phone, and frowns slightly.

“We really must take our seats soon. Lucy, who are you sitting next to for the ceremony?” Jessica asks. The question is innocent, but there’s a glint in her dark eyes that Anthony can’t yet make sense of. Lucy peers behind the siblings and gestures towards a seat on the other side of the aisle.

“I’m technically one of Kat’s guests, so I’m sitting on that side with some other people from Fittes. I’m by Alaina Martill and Leonard Agate—”

Jessica lets out a small gasp. “Leonard Agate! I’m _such_ a fan of his, and I haven’t had the chance to meet him until now. This is so last minute, and I’d understand if you didn’t want to, but do you think we could possibly switch seats? I’m just so eager to meet him.”

Anthony knows his sister, and he knows that she has never so much as _heard_ of Leonard Agate in her life, nevermind be a big enough fan of his to disrupt Kat Godwin’s meticulous seating arrangement.

“Um, maybe,” Lucy says, clearly caught off guard. “Who’s your seat next to?”

“I have the aisle seat next to Anthony,” Jessica says, looking over to her brother and grinning widely. Anthony smiles back, every bit as sunnily, and wonders if it’s legally possible to disown a sibling.

Lucy glances at Anthony and bites her lip. “Alright. If Kat asks, though, it wasn’t my idea.”

“Sure. Thank you again. You have no idea what a favor this is for me,” Jessica says, and then quickly strides away to her new seat (not before throwing Anthony a conspiring smirk.)

“Well,” Anthony says after regaining his ability to speak. “Should we go take our seats as well?”

“Might as well,” Lucy agrees. Anthony offers out her arm to her, and she takes it. “I had no idea your sister was such a big fan of Leonard.”

“Yes, she’s never mentioned him before,” Anthony says dryly. “What does he do?”

“He’s the chief sub-editor. He checks for grammar and punctuation errors in my section of Fittes,” Lucy says. “I don’t think it’s a position that has many fans, so he’ll be thrilled to meet one.” 

Anthony has to bite his lip from laughing as he and Lucy take their seats. While he might not appreciate Jessica’s meddling, he can’t say he minds sitting next to Lucy too terribly. 

The babble of the guests quiets down to soft murmurs as the officiant stands up at the podium, his smile beatific. It’s a secular ceremony, so the man is dressed in a simple, but well-fitted suit. Music starts up; the song the string quartet plays is familiar and sweet, some old, timeless standard that Anthony’s heard before, but can’t recall the name of. The entire crowd has hushed now, enough that Anthony can hear the faraway sound of waves crashing against rock below them under the rich notes of the song.

The first person down the aisle is Kat’s maid-of-honor, a teenaged girl in lavender Anthony can recognize as Kat’s half-sister (they share the same sharp features and pale blonde hair). She smiles shyly as the attention turns to her. After her comes Quill Kipps, hair neatly parted, clad in a neat lavender tuxedo. Anthony can’t help but smile a bit at the sight of that; he has suspicions that Holly’s color scheme had specifically banned greyscale because of Kipps, knowing that the man wouldn’t dare turn her down as her man-of-honor. Lavender clashes with Kipps’ hair a bit, but he honestly suits the outfit. Anthony thinks that Kipps should be forced into bright colors more often.

“Is their family in the ceremony?” Lucy asks Anthony quietly. She has to lean in close, careful as to not disturb the atmosphere, and the hairs on the back of Anthony’s neck stand up from her proximity.

“They’re not in the procession,” Anthony murmurs back, craning his neck down slightly to better reach her height. “Holly’s parents are in the front row of our side, and Kat’s father is on the other side.”

Anthony gestures towards them with his head, where Holly’s father is already weeping fully and openingly into the sleeve of his agbada.

Kipps and Kat’s sister stop at either side of the wedding arch and both turn to look down the aisle. The wind picks up slightly, the grass beneath their feet flutters and the gossamer on every chair floats and falls with the breeze.

There’s the sound of laughter, and the guests turn around in their chairs to see Holly Munro and Kat Godwin, hand-in-hand. Holly is the one giggling, exuberant with the emotion of the event. She’s clutching a bouquet of lilacs and white peonies in her free hand and she waves to her guests. Kat walks in step with her, a pleasant flush on her face, a spray of the same flowers braided into her short hair. They’re both clad in classic bridal white. Kat’s dress drapes down her body in an elegant column that reminds Anthony of the Ionic chitons from Ancient Greece. Holly’s outfit is more elaborate: a satin, sleeveless jumpsuit under a sheer skirt and bishop sleeves. It’s not the typical wedding dress, but it’s still as puffy and feminine as Anthony had expected from Holly.

The musicians play their coda, and then set their instruments aside as the brides reach the altar.

“Friends and family,” the officiant says. His accent is American, which is oddly jarring to Anthony, despite the fact they’re in California. “I am so honored that you could all be here this afternoon to celebrate this wonderful event.”

His opening remarks go on for another minute or so, before the officiant tilts his head towards the brides. “Now, I believe our couple has prepared their own vows for each other.”

The officiant hands Kat his microphone. The wintry blonde gives Holly a strange expression, one that Anthony can’t tell is a smile or a grimace.

“Well. We are getting married,” Kat says, her voice as collected and clipped as always. “Holly, meeting you has been one of the most notable events in my life.”

Then, abruptly, Kat bursts into tears. Anthony’s not sure he’s even seen Kat as so much furrow her brows before, so this display of emotional feels uncharacteristically intense. Even Holly seems startled, the darker-skinned woman reaching out to Kat as she continues to speak.

“W...When I met you, I was _such_ a bitch. But you were patient with me, and you saw the best in me, because you always see the best in everybody you interact with. Being with you has made me into a better person. I know anyone here would say that. And if I can be the person at your side for all of your ambitions, then I am truly lucky.”

A few people in the audience “ _aww_ ” at this, and Anthony finds it both charming and slightly awkward as Kat sobs through the rest of her vows. He can’t make out exactly what Kat is babbling, but Holly seems to be able to understand her, and he supposes that’s all that really matters in the end.

There’s a sniffle from his right, and Anthony realizes with a start that Lucy is tearing up. He makes a noise of concern and hovers a hand over her back, not entirely sure what to do.

“I’m fine,” Lucy whispers, voice thick with emotion. “I always cry at events like this—it’s stupid.” 

She pats around her dress for something to wipe her face with, and Anthony reaches into his breast pocket and offers Lucy his pocket square. It’s technically meant to be decorative, but it’s functional as a handkerchief and he’s not too attached to it anyways. Lucy gently dabs at her eyes and murmurs her thanks.

Holly recites her own vows (much more articulately), and afterwards, Kipps and Kat’s sister present the brides with their wedding rings.

“Wear these rings as a reminder of the vows you have just taken, as an affirmation of your love and commitment for each other,” the officiant says.

The couple exchanges rings, and Anthony’s gaze unconsciously falls upon Lucy. He hadn’t expected her to be the kind of person who cries at weddings, and knowing that she does is endearing. He wants to learn more mundane facts about Lucy Carlyle. They’re both facing the altar, but they’re still angled towards each other in their seats from when she had been whispering in his ear. One of Lucy’s hands is in her lap, the other still holding Anthony’s now-ruined pocket square to her face. Lucy catches Anthony’s eyes on her, and she gives him a small, watery smile before focusing back on the ceremony.

Her hand is _right there_. The breeze is quieting down, the atmosphere serene—if Anthony can unglue his own hands from his knees, and if she doesn’t mind how clammy his palms are right now, maybe he can reach over and take her hand…

“It is with great pleasure that I now pronounce you partners for life. You may now have your first kiss as a married couple!”

Anthony whips his head towards the altar just in time to see Holly and Kat kiss. His fellow guests begin to cheer, and people throw fistfuls of dried flower petals into the air until the entire cliffside looks as if it's covered in a surprise spring snow storm. Anthony’s heart is racing, but he suspects that that has little to do with the excitement around him. Slightly dazed, he stands up and smooths the front of his suit down before clapping along.

“That was a great ceremony. Nice and short,” Lucy murmurs as she stands up as well. The corner of her mouth is quirked up, the way that it always is whenever she shares a quip with only Anthony.

He doesn’t trust himself enough to say anything in response, not with love in the air and blood beating so quickly through his veins. Anthony just smiles at her and hopes that that constitutes as enough a response, and claps until the nerves in his hands sting.

* * *

Directly after the ceremony, Holly and Kat mingle with their guests, graciously accepting congratulations and well-wishes. The ceremony is private, with no press in attendance (none that are covering the event, anyways), but Holly’s still provided an elaborate photo backdrop for guests to take pictures in front of. Jessica and Anthony end up taking a few together to share with their parents. Anthony then watches Jessica try to persuade Kipps to take a photo with her; eventually, Kipps relents and even allows the photographer to take one of him smiling, which Anthony has never seen him do in pictures before. He’s not even sure if Kipps was smiling during the ceremony.

As the event staff prepares dinner, cocktail service begins. Anthony takes a bellini, mingles with a few friendly strangers, and watches from a distance as Lucy takes some goofy pictures with her coworkers. If he asked her to take a picture with him, she’d probably say yes, but then would he do with the photos? It’s not as if he could post them; Lucy doesn’t mind social media, but she wouldn’t want to be caught up in celebrity Instagram. If they took any pictures together, they’d probably be relegated to only being looked upon by Anthony, and only when he was feeling particularly mournful.

Anthony shudders. Maybe he’ll take a more casual picture with Lucy later, or perhaps ask George Cubbins to join the shot. That would surely kill any romantic implications.

Holly and Kat leave to change for dinner, and Anthony finds himself talking to Kat’s half-sister. He learns that her name is Elizabeth (although she insists he calls her Eliza), she’s in her secondary school’s drama club and she _really_ liked the dark prince outfit Anthony wore during Fashion Week. She seems a little starstruck by him, but they manage to have finished a decent conversation by the time dinner is ready. 

Dinner is held in a high-ceilinged ballroom on the estate. Seating is arranged (and with both of the brides present, swapping seats again seems risky), so Lucy sits at a table with her coworkers, and Anthony’s tablemates are some friends from past modelling events. The food is delicious, but Anthony wouldn’t expect anything less. Several of his fellow guests have taken the small bouquet of lavender that everyone had received and attached them to their outfits; Kipps has tucked his into his breast pocket, Jessica’s clasped it to her bracelet, and George’s let Flo stick sprigs of lavender into his hair. Anthony decides to pin his to his lapel as a boutonnière.

Near the end of dinner, people stand up to give speeches about the newly-married couple. Kat’s father goes first, delivering a speech that’s heartfelt, if a bit long-winded. Then Holly’s brother and sister (who are older than her and fraternal twins) perform a vaudeville style skit with a lot of “audience” participation, and Holly’s mother gives a brief speech that leaves many eyes in the room misty. Eliza Godwin is shy throughout her speech, her eyes flickering to Anthony’s face every few seconds. Finally, as plates are being cleared and glasses of lemon sorbet are brought to each table, Kipps stands up and walks towards the microphone stand.

He buttons his tuxedo jacket and lowers the microphone height. Someone near the back wolf whistles, and Kipps rolls his eyes in response, resulting in some laughs.

“Well. I’ve known Holly for almost eight years, and Kat for four. I’d like to think that I know them pretty well, and that they know me. They know that I dislike making speeches and wearing colors other than black and grey—which is why they made me do both today, in front of an audience. So first of all, _touché_.”

There’s another round of laughter and a few more whistles. Kipps seems tipsy, a lowball glass in his hand, but Anthony suspects he’d have to be to willingly make a speech.

“Right, anyways. When I first met Holly in university, I never thought we’d be where we are today. I didn’t expect introducing an editor to my business partner would result in a marriage. But I suppose that’s how life works. It always throws something unexpected at you. For example, if I hadn’t been there to witness it myself, I never would have guessed that Holly used to walk around campus with her eyebrows shaved off because Pinterest told her to,” Kipps says.

Anthony can’t imagine the immaculately made-up woman ever making a fashion faux-pas, but from the way Holly covers her face with her hands, Kipp’s telling the truth. Anthony catches sight of Lucy at her table; she’s angled away from him, but as she laughs, Anthony can see the side of her face clearly. She’s pinned the sprigs of lavender into her hair, just above her ear.

“Honestly, I’m not going to define romance for you, or gush about how much Holly and Kat love each other, because that’s honestly up to them. You might be wondering what I’m up here to say, and I wish I had a better answer, but the truth is I’m just going to stick with what our brides requested from me: that I speak my feelings. Which, again, thanks _a lot_. You know I hate that.”

Kipps takes a sip from his glass to punctuate his point, and when he lowers it, a sense of seriousness replaces his dry, joking tone.

“I feel as if no human is perfect, and therefore no people can be perfect for each other. But I suppose a relationship—any, not just a marriage—can sustain itself with effort. Which you’d think is fairly obvious, but—” Kipps waves his hand around vaguely.

Just then, Anthony makes eye contact with Lucy, who smiles slightly. Anthony smiles back, crossing his arms across his chest; his eyes linger on her a second too long to feel entirely casual.

“Love is a game of chance, ultimately. Sometimes the risk isn’t worth a loss, but once in a while, it is. I feel as if, inevitably, every relationship can only end in one of two ways: either with heartbreak, or with you two stuck together for the rest of eternity.”

Kipps raises his glass.

“So—Holly, Kat—may you be stuck together for the rest of eternity.”

There’s a loud burst of applause, with several people raising their own glasses up in a toast. Anthony is impressed at Kipps’ speech. Somehow, the man’s managed to turn his little pellets of cynicism into an oddly inspiring appeal. Anthony watches Kipps walk back to his seat; the shorter man isn’t sitting at the same table as Jessica, but Anthony sees them give each other a thumbs up as Kipps passes by her seat. The gesture is oddly goofy for Kipps. Maybe that's Jessica's influence on him.

Holly runs down from her table to give Kipps an enthusiastic hug in thanks, nearly barreling him over. Kat seems to decide that a handshake with Kipps will suffice, and then seems to change her mind and gives him a hug too.

“We’re truly so grateful and touched by your amazing speeches. I am always honored by the love and support we’re fortunate enough to have,” Holly says into the microphone after all the applause has died down. “Now, we’d like to continue our celebration with a few events before the dance!”

And then, as if her words had queued it (which Anthony wouldn’t put past Holly), a large, four-tiered cake is rolled out in front of the brides’ table. It’s decorated neatly with textured swatches of buttercream frosting, and Anthony would bet good money that it’s taller than most six-year old children. George looks ready to pass out in his seat.

After Holly and Kat cut the first slices, waiters come around and offer each guest a plate of cake and some complimenting white wine. Anthony accepts both.

* * *

The music playing is a truly random assortment of songs: several modern pop songs play in a row, then a fast hip-hop beat, and then a number that Anthony’s pretty sure is from the musical “RENT.” They shouldn’t flow together as well, but they do. And they’re all extremely danceable.

After Holly and Kat’s first dance together, Anthony is immediately pulled into a dance by a group of friends from the industry. He watches them for a few songs; they’re all slightly tipsy, so the most anyone can do is bounce along to the beat, which he finds pretty amusing. The group is large and familiar enough that Anthony is able to catch up with a few people he hadn’t seen in a while. Many of them are young models, just as he is, and they excitedly discuss everything from new designers to the upcoming Met Gala. The music is loud, but not head-splittingly so.

The “dance floor” is a smooth stone patio just outside of the ballroom they had had dinner in. There are tall, old-fashioned street lights surrounding the edge of the stonework, which keep the venue from being plunged into the total darkness of the mountains at night. A long table is laid out with some finger foods and beverages, just in case anyone dances themself into hunger. There isn’t as much seating as there was inside, but there are still a few wrought-iron tables on the lawn where those less inclined to dance sit. The estate is so secluded in the mountains that Anthony can’t see any city lights. Once in a while, he sees a low beam light flicker in the distant hills, the occasional car driving past.

After a few songs with the large group, Anthony is bumped aside by Flo. 

“I hate this song,” she shouts, entirely too loudly and into his ear, but she’s dancing along to it anyways. Flo’s lost one of her shoes, but she seems not to care. Anthony’s not sure if she’s drunk or if this strange flailing is how Flo normally dances, but Anthony ends up enjoying himself anyways. When the song’s over, Flo punches him lightly on the shoulder and ambles off to find her next victim.

Eliza Godwin tries to teach Anthony how to do the Macarena when the song comes on, flustered when he manages to absorb absolutely none of the moves. Anthony’s hip roll is sadly lacking. Still, he has fun trying and failing to remember the order he’s supposed to move each limb, and Eliza seems almost sad when the song is over.

Anthony watches as Henry, whom Anthony had ever seen in the context of being Holly’s personal assistant, does a perfect backflip to a rock ballad while several people cheer him on. Anthony accepts that now would probably be as good of a time as any to take a break and wait for a genre he’s better suited to to come on.

He sees George grazing the snack table, a plate piled high with lox crackers in one hand, Flo’s missing shoe in the other. The bespeckled man greets him when Anthony walks towards him. There are still flower petals stuck in his blonde hair.

“Are you looking for your Cinderella?” Anthony asks, gesturing at the shoe. George snorts.

“No, I can see her quite clearly from here,” George says dryly, but not without fondness. Anthony follows his friend’s line of sight to where Flo has challenged Henry to some sort of dance off. He can already guess who the winner will be.

Anthony laughs slightly. “I didn’t figure Holly would have a dance party like this. It seems a bit...chaotic for her.”

“Kat likes this kind of music, but I’m sure they’ll play slower songs as the night goes on. People usually do convoluted stuff like that,” George says, not before taking a very wet bite of mango pudding.

“I take it you’re not much of a dancer?” Anthony asks. Anthony’s only half-paying attention to the other man, his focus more on surveying the assorted snacks.

“No, I love to dance,” George says. “I live to _plié_ and arabesque. Oh, try the caramelized pineapple—but steer clear of those little hamburgers. They’re eggplant based.”

Anthony’s no fan of eggplant either, so he takes a plate and dutifully picks a few of George’s recommendations. 

“I was honestly worried about the wedding cake, with Holly’s health habits and everything, but it turned out rather good. Still a bit too much fruit if you ask me, but they were easy enough to pick aside,” George says.

“Yes, it was quite good,” Anthony says. “Their first dance was well done. They must have really practiced.” 

“Seemed so,” George says, finishing off the last of his snacks. “We never really had any of this pomp and circumstance at my wedding.”

Anthony nearly chokes on a pineapple cube. “At your _what_ now?”

Either George is pretending to have not heard him, or is understandably distracted by the women’s shoe that goes flying over their heads. Anthony hears it land in grass.

George sets his plate down and pats Anthony’s arm in a friendly manner. “Well, I have to go see if I can finally make a matching set and return them to Flo. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Anthony is then left there, alone with his plate and confusion. He catches a flash of red hair in the lamplight and takes a few steps closer to get a better look. There, behind the column, Kipps and Jessica are playing an intense round of two-person poker.

That's not a euphemism. 

They’re sitting near the ballroom’s entrance, colorful playing cards in their hands, drinks on the table between them. Anthony’s not surprised to see Kipps avoiding the noise of the crowd, but he is momentarily confused as to why the more extroverted Jessica wouldn’t leave him and go mingle around. Then he remembers what a terrible dancer Jessica is: despite her tall and elegant gait, Jessica is all elbows when it comes to matters of rhythm. She’d hate going out and embarrassing herself on the dance floor. He’s too far to hear their voices, but Anthony watches as Jessica says something that makes Kipps laugh.

In an odd way, he’s glad that they’ve both found someone to sit out dances with.

He hears soft footsteps behind him, and turns to see Lucy. Anthony had lost sight of her after dinner, but here she is now, scooping up a handful of peanuts into a napkin and popping them into her mouth.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Lucy says. She’s just as beautiful in this lowlight. Even the small smudges of mascara under her eyes are oddly enchanting.

Anthony finishes his plate and sets it aside. “Have you? What for?” 

Lucy holds up what Anthony thinks is a scruffy, wet rag. Upon closer inspection, he realizes it’s his pocket square.

“I tried washing it in the bathroom after dinner, but the manufacturers of Porter’s hand soap didn’t seem to have cotton-silk fabric in mind when they designed their product.” Lucy seems apologetic and somewhat embarrassed.

“Ah, well at least it’ll smell like lemon verbena mist now,” Anthony says. “It’s alright. You can just keep it.”

Lucy raises an eyebrow. “Keep it? And do what, use it as a dish towel?”

“The possibilities are endless, Luce. I’m sure you’ll come up with something.” Anthony smiles. “Or you can just toss it.”

She laughs at him, in a good-intentioned sort of way. They stand in comfortable silence as Lucy finishes her peanuts and Anthony contemplates the people dancing. He’s not drunk, but he is buzzed, and that’s making him feel a little more at ease around Lucy. George was right, the playlist seems to have changed throughout the night. The songs are now entirely oldies: some heartfelt, truly retro rock and roll standards that dissolve sweetly into the night sky. It could be any time from 8 PM to 1 AM, and Anthony doesn’t care enough to check.

A Beatles song starts playing, one of their faster, more upbeat tunes that Anthony’s heard played a thousand times. There are the familiar plunky chords of the guitar and the rhythmic claps that Anthony taps his fingers to. He might not be able to do any trendy, gravity-defying moves, but he can definitely dance to this.

Grinning at Lucy, Anthony takes a step backwards towards the dancefloor, clapping to the beat. Wide eyed, Lucy seems to realize what’s about to happen.

“Don’t.”

Spinning around, Anthony does what he feels like is a decent rendition of the Twist, moving his arms from side to side. Anthony doesn’t typically try to make a fool of himself in plain view of other people, but Lucy’s laughing, so it feels like it’s worth it.

“You look ridiculous,” Lucy says, but she’s smiling beneath her hand. “This isn’t even ‘Twist and Shout.’”

Anthony tosses his head back. He had applied pomade to his hair in the morning, but several hours of activity have let his natural waves spring back into place. A lock of it falls over his forehead as he grins.

“If you come out here, you can insult my moves all you want, but you can’t make fun of me if you’re not dancing,” Anthony says. He takes another step towards the dancefloor, and Lucy moves forward so that they’re no further apart.

“Believe me, there’s enough going on here that I might be willing to take that,” Lucy says, waving her hands around in exaggerated exasperation. Anthony sees the opportunity and seizes it; reaching out, he takes Lucy’s hands into his and pulls her towards him. She yelps in surprise.

Lucy’s not super close, but she’s still close enough that this feels daring. Anthony’s in such a good mood that he brushes aside the warning bells that ring at the fuzzy edge of his brain, and instead absentmindedly runs a thumb over the callouses on her palm.

“Let’s dance,” Anthony says, and he tries to say it casually, but it sounds almost like a plea. Lucy looks down at their hands and frowns.

“You won’t be surprised to learn that I don’t know how,” she says.

“Even better. I’ll teach you,” Anthony says. “My father didn’t spend his afternoons during my formative years teaching me how to waltz for no reason.”

“Ah, the classic father-son bonding activity of _waltzing_ ,” Lucy says dryly.

Anthony laughs. “Those are bold words from someone who’s about to be spun.”

“What—”

Smoothly, he lets go of one of her hands and twirls her around. Lucy spins quickly, caught up in the momentum of Anthony’s movement. Her cheeks are pink when they’re face to face again, and for a second, Anthony’s worried that he’s being too bold.

“Let me try that,” Lucy says. Anthony’s a good sport and lets Lucy “twirl” him, which mostly just involves her holding one of his arms up and him crouching down to fit underneath it. Anthony swings her around a few times to the fast-paced song, singing the words under his breath. Lucy’s a clumsy dancer, but there’s no partner he’d rather have.

“If you’re teaching me how to dance,” Lucy grins as she tries to make Anthony do the wave, ”does that mean you can show me how to do that backpack kid dance? Because I tried, and I never could get it.”

Anthony frowns at her. “What year is this?”

“As if waltzing is somehow more modern?”

“Waltzing is _timeless_ ,” Anthony says. “Besides, this isn’t even waltzing.”

A slower song starts playing, and Lucy looks up to Anthony with something like a challenge in her eyes and says, casually as anything: “Then show me.”

Anthony’s breath catches in the back of his throat. He takes a step closer to her until they’re only a breath from being pressed up against each other. His left arm wraps around her waist, his other hand still intertwined with hers. While the song might be slower, it’s still not really waltz music—but Anthony’s not really in a rush to bring that up.

“Put your other hand on my shoulder. Ah, you don’t have to if you’re not comfortable,” Anthony says, but Lucy’s already laid her hand there. “Alright, then we step like so…”

He leads her around in a simple box step. The other people on the dance floor aren’t paying any attention to them, since they’re tucked away near the back of the venue, but that somehow only makes Anthony feel more aware of everything. Maybe now, of all times, he should be more nervous, but he feels strangely calm.

There’s an endearing expression of concentration on Lucy’s face. Anthony’s always liked how wholeheartedly she seems to dedicate herself to something once it’s piqued her interest; she furrows her brows and only stumbles a few times. Her hands are warm.

“Have I told you you look nice today?” Anthony asks. He’s having a hard time recollecting anything that’s happened before this very moment.

Lucy raises an eyebrow. “Yes, you have.”

“Well, it bears repeating. You look wonderful, Luce, you really do.”

“Thank you again,” Lucy smiles at him, something hard to make out in her eyes. “You know, I really don’t think I could be doing any of this if I hadn’t met you. You really made me feel like I belonged in all of this.”

Anthony doesn’t really know what to say in response to that, so he chuckles and glances over her shoulder. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate her more sentimental side, or that he’s being humble—there’s just a pleasant heat creeping up his neck that’s growing hard to ignore.

He redirects the topic to something more mundane. “Did you get the chance to meet Kat’s younger sister? I found out that we enjoy many of the same publications.”

Lucy squeezes his hand. “Teen gossip magazines, you mean.”

“You must be disappointed to learn that I’m not the _only_ one who reads them, contrary to your cruel and unfair bullying,” Anthony says.

“The difference being that she’s a fifteen-year-old girl, and that you’re an adult man,” Lucy says, trying and failing to keep her face serious.

“Eliza’s a fellow patron of the arts,” Anthony says. “She was very sweet.”

“Yes, and very quiet,” Lucy says.

“Was she? I thought she was rather talkative.”

Lucy laughs so hard that she breaks concentration and accidentally stomps on his toes. “That’s because she has a crush on you. Eliza was staring at you during her entire speech. Didn’t you notice?”

Anthony stops dancing and lowers his hand, confused. “No, I didn’t. I’m not very good at noticing that sort of thing, though.”

Lucy’s stopped dancing too, although her hand remains held in his. She gives Anthony an incredulous look.

“Honestly, I’m not surprised,” she finally says. “I had a crush on you when we first met and you didn’t notice at all.”

It feels like someone’s playing a practical joke on him, or that he’s stuck in a dream he’s not sure he wants to wake up from. Anthony tries to form a sentence, and after several false starts, manages to choke out:

“What?”

“For like the first three months I knew you.” Lucy lets go of his hand and absentmindedly scuffs the ground with one of her shoes. The apples of her cheeks are flushed, from both dancing and from emotion, but she sustains their eye contact. Anthony no longer knows what to do with his hands now that they’re not on Lucy, so they dangle awkwardly at his side. He takes a stab at another sentence.

“Why?”

Perfect. Maybe if he _really_ stretches the boundaries of his mind, he’ll be able to tackle “where” “who” and “when” next. Then maybe Lucy will get annoyed enough to put him out of his misery.

“You were a famous, handsome model in a see-through shirt,” Lucy says, as if this should have been obvious all along. “And we kept running into each other, and you kept talking to me, and I kind of built you up in my head. Then I got to know you.”

“Oh,” Anthony says. “And what do you think now?”

He braces himself for what he’s sure is Lucy’s way of gently letting him know they’re just friends. Instead, she smiles slightly and brushes Anthony’s wayward curl out of his eyes.

“I think you are even better than what I imagined.”

There’s a lot behind her words, and Lucy nervously stares at Anthony, clearly awaiting his reaction. Everything around them seems very quiet now, the mountains around them hazy and distant. Is there even music playing anymore?

Anthony swallows, and everything finally clicks into place.

“Lucy—” Anthony says, and he’s not sure if she rushes up to meet him or vice versa, but he doesn’t really care because he knows for _certain_ that her lips are on his, and that’s all that matters. He has to stoop slightly to reach Lucy, the curve of her jaw cupped in his hands as they kiss. Lucy runs her fingers through his hair and tugs lightly, which makes Anthony gasp against her mouth and drop his hands to her shoulders. Her lips are soft and smooth, and he thinks that her lipstick might be apricot-flavored because she definitely tastes of it.

As they pull apart from each other, Anthony’s heartbeat seems to be going a mile a minute; he keeps his hands on her shoulders, his gaze locked squarely on her face. There’s a pleasant flush spreading across her tea colored skin.

He wants to tell her so many things—how long he’s thought of kissing her, how beautiful she looks in the dreamy half-light, how soft her lips are. Anthony wants to ask her if the kiss was alright, if she’d minded it. He wants to express that he’d love to try for a relationship with her, if they could take things slow. He wants to kiss her again, wants to explain that they should go somewhere private because it might be bad for people to see them in such a compromising position. And yet, he knows what would happen if they did go out. The media would hound Lucy, and Anthony’s not sure if Lucy is truly aware of all the discourse that could erupt from their relationship. Anthony’s head hurts from all the opposing thoughts running through it, and Lucy must notice because she sees his tense expression and brushes a hand against his cheek. 

“Anthony?” Lucy asks, voice uncharacteristically gentle. “Is everything alright?”

The tenderness in her expression is overwhelming, and all of Anthony’s emotions fight to be the first expressed. His grip on Lucy’s shoulders is now more desperate than affectionate. 

“I—I shouldn’t have done that.” 

Lucy shrugs out of Anthony’s grasp. “Excuse me?”

Anthony stammers. That clearly wasn’t the right thing to say, and it came out completely different from what he actually wanted to articulate, but how could he spin this to be anything better?

“Lucy, let me explain myself—”

“No, I don’t think you need to,” Lucy says, the raw edge of her words knife-sharp. “I clearly misread this situation.”

Anthony runs his hand through his hair, harassed. “No, you didn’t misread anything. I just...can’t date you.”

That definitely wasn’t the right thing to say. Anthony wants to explain himself, but he’s honestly overwhelmed by the waves of emotion that are fighting for his attention. No one seems to have noticed their kiss or their argument, due to the fact that they’re near the back of the venue. Lucy’s eyes widen, and she laughs as if she can’t believe his words. It’s not her usual warm laugh; it’s forced and sharp, more like a scoff than anything.

“Great, because kissing me and then saying it was a mistake is so much better. Is this some sort of twisted power play for you?” Lucy says, raising her voice.

“What? No!” Anthony says, trying to keep his own voice even. “I—I like you, Lucy, but I don’t think it’d be good for you—”

Lucy cuts him off with a furious noise that genuinely frightens Anthony. “I am an adult! You don’t get to decide that for me! If I liked you, and you were interested in me, then why—”

In the previous times he’s seen her angry or frustrated, Lucy’s anger has always run hot. Her eyes burn bright, and her fists are clenched up so tight that she shakes slightly. When she stops talking, however, something changes. Lucy stills so abruptly and so completely that it’s like something’s come over her.

“Oh, I understand now,” Lucy says, her voice cool. “How would the public react if _rising star_ Anthony Lockwood dated some plain-looking, no-name reporter? Wouldn’t that be so embarrassing? How is the media supposed to swoon over Lockwood if he’s taken?”

Anthony’s jaw clenches. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Lucy says. “You said before that I’m a great writer who belongs where I am, and maybe you really did mean that. But I’m clearly getting ahead of myself. After all, why would a _famous_ and _charming_ supermodel care about my feelings?”

Anthony doesn’t know what to say. He’s not sure if he’s frustrated with her or with himself, and there’s a rolling sense of guilt in his stomach, because some of Lucy’s words are ringing true. He had always told himself that he would sacrifice personal relationships over his public image, but it’s the first time he’s been confronted with that choice. It doesn’t feel smart and pragmatic, like he had thought it would. It feels cruel.

How did the night devolve into this?

Lucy’s crying, he realizes. There are streaks of mascara running down her face, but she glares at him unrelentingly. 

Lucy’s not wrong to be angry, but her train of thought is getting hard to follow. He feels as if he’s being confronted with every emotion he’s tried to suppress for the past six months at once, and his brain is beyond confused. Anthony raises a hand to his forehead.

“I…”

He doesn’t know what else to say.

“You know what? Forget it. Forget all of this,” Lucy snaps. “Just—never talk to me again.”

And with that, Lucy tears the flowers out of her hair, throws them to the ground, and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And that's it! That's the end of this fic! Wasn't that fun, guys?
> 
> Just kidding. Please don't attack me. This chapter also ended up being pretty long (around 8k), so that's nice.
> 
> Notes:  
>  -Malibu is a city in California, near Los Angeles. It's a pretty expensive, affluent area with beautiful natural beaches and mountains.  
> -Writing a wedding was a fun challenge; I didn't think Holly or Kat would have a super traditional wedding, hence there's no "giving the bride away" or anything like that.  
> -In terms of outfits, I wanted to take advantage of the setting and try to put the characters in some nonstandard choices. Anthony and Kipps both wearing bright colors, Flo in a dress, Holly and Kat both in unconventional wedding dresses - I had a lot of fun with these. George and Jessica are the only two not wildly different because Jessica is always fashionable, and George never is.  
> -In regards to their argument - Lucy is hurt, and is definitely the type of person to jump to conclusions and project her own insecurities onto the person they're angry at. Not to say that Anthony doesn't have some of his own problems to work through. 
> 
> I can't think of any other notes, so here are outfits (warning - there are a lot of outfits!):
> 
> Jessica (Reformation Harlowe):  
> 
> 
> Anthony (Unbranded ASOS design - in universe, assume that it's some custom-made tux.)  
> 
> 
> Flo (Free People)  
> 
> 
> Kipps (Also unbraded Asos design)  
> 
> 
> Kat's wedding dress (by Sophie and Voila, 2019 collection)  
> 
> 
> Holly's wedding dress/jumpsuit (custom-made)  
> 
> 
> I designed Lucy's dress, which you can see [here on my tumblr.](https://elindadraws.tumblr.com/post/619578501890277376/a-lucy-dress-i-designed-for-chapter-7-of-my)  
>    
> This chapter was very much "two steps forward, one step back." I don't think love would come easily to Lockwood or Lucy - where's the fun in that? Still, I hope you were able to enjoy this chapter in its entirety. Next chapter will be out sometime later in the summer. Stay safe, stay healthy, and stay righteous.


	8. Anthony's Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MUCH LOVE FOR DUMBLEDORESLINGERIE FOR SAVING MY BUTT COUNTLESS TIMES AND GENERALLY BEING THE BEST BETA EVER. MWAH.

_ “This is your Delta flight 531, with nonstop service from LAX to LHR. Our flight attendants will be walking down the aisles and collecting any rubbish before our landing in London shortly. We will be arriving in fifteen minutes. Thank you so much for flying with us.” _ _  
_

* * *

He’d been silent the entire plane ride home.

Jessica had noticed, but when asked, Anthony had brushed her off with the vague mumbled explanation “Hangover,” and then immediately covered his face with the complimentary first-class eye masks.

In truth, his head felt fine. It was every other part of his body that ached.   


* * *

**Holly Munro** **@hollymunro** **✔️** **· 1h**

Yesterday I married the love of my life surrounded by all of our friends and family. Today we leave for our honeymoon in O’ahu! I love being married. **🤗**

**Floooooo ☠️ @fbones✔️** **· 33m**

_ Replying to @hollymunro _

bar service at your wedding was tops. In unrelated news, if anyone happens to find a grey 36C bra at the in Grove Resort pool in Malibu, DM me thx.    


* * *

Anthony doesn’t even wait for the taxi to stop completely before he barrels out of it, a blur of dark fabric and rattling luggage wheels. He hears Jessica say something to the driver, but he doesn’t bother deciphering what. He’s already holding his key when he reaches the front door of 35 Portland Row; there are scratch marks on the iron door lock, and he accidentally adds a couple more through his impatience. He scrabbles at the lock until it finally opens.

He can hear his sister on the steps behind him, can practically see the question in her eyes, so he doesn’t turn around and let her ask it.

Portland Row is exactly as they left it a week ago, dark and slightly dusty and comforting. Jessica shuts the front door behind her, and Anthony sets his luggage down by the ottoman. He feels Jessica fluttering behind him like a nervous bee; she knows something’s wrong with him, but isn’t quite sure how to ask it yet.

“Anthony—”

“I’m going to go to bed,” he says, straightening up. He turns towards her, but looks over her shoulder rather than meet her gaze.

Anthony can tell from the way she wrings her hands that she’s worried (Jessica would otherwise never rough herself up willingly), but she lets him go upstairs without any further questions, and for that, he’s grateful.   


* * *

**anthony:** I can’t make it to tomorrow’s fitting.

**anthony:** Sorry.

**kipps:** Jesus, Lockwood you’re using capitalization in your texts. Are you dying or something?

**anthony:** See you next week.   
  


**kipps:** ?

**kipps:** Are you fucking with me?

**kipps:** Tony, answer my texts.

**kipps:** Lockwood.

**kipps:** Anthony?   
…

_ “Hullo, you’ve reached the number of Anthony J. Lockwood. So sorry to have missed your call. Please leave a voicemail at the tone, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Ta!” _

_ *beep* _

“Hey, Lockwood, this is George. Did something happen between you and Lucy? I’m not going to pick a side, mate, but I’m confused as hell. Also, I tried that Thai restaurant you suggested, and it was great. Call me back when you can. Bye.” _  
_

* * *

Anthony’s barely eaten any solid food in the past few days, just having enough energy to stomp downstairs and blend together any random produce left in the fridge. By the third night, he’s gone from strawberry acai smoothies to sipping juiced spinach through a straw. It tastes like rotting grass, but it would take too much effort to get up and make something else.

He’s awake at odd hours, but sometimes he smells Jessica’s cooking downstairs, or gets a waft of some of her take out, but his stomach curdles at the thought of eating anything more substantial than crushed kale.

It takes a week for him to finally move his luggage from the foyer to his bedroom, and it’s another two days before he can actually bring himself to unpack it.

Anthony shifts through the clothing, through memories that feel like they’re from a lifetime ago, despite the fact that his lavender boutonniere hasn’t even had time to wilt yet.

Mechanically, he places his dirty clothing in the wash, sorts away his unworn socks, and when his fingers brush against the sage-green of a herringbone blazer—

He feels sad and horrified and immediately responsive all at once, emotion coursing through the forced numbness of his nerves until it detonates in his chest.

He feels the sweet pressure of her lips against his, her fingers knotting in his hair.

He feels horrible, suffocating, and overwhelming guilt.   


* * *

**Yikezzz** **@mintiberry · 1h**

Is anyone else? lowkey worried about @ajlockwood? He hasn’t tweeted in ten days and previously the longest amt of time he went w/o tweeting was like…. four hours.   
  


**Neddy ‘bbq’ sauss @nadine1997· 51m**

_ Replying to @minitiberry _

Aadofadsijoaief okay!! It’s not just me? usually he likes all of my fanedits but he hasn’t liked anything for days? i thot he blocked me or smth.😭😭😭  
  
**himberly (himbo kimberly) @cruustacin· 48m**

 _Replying to @nadine1997_ _  
_ NO omg ur edits are so good? and he said he liked them, remember? maybe @jessssica lost him in california or something???  
  


**Honda Lee Ellis @hle11edo· 40m**

*singing, but in minor key so you know i’m sad* i want to see my little boy (here he comes),, i want to see my little boy. @ajlockwood   
  


**Honda Lee Ellis @hle11edo· 39m**

_Replying to @hle11edo_ _  
_ All jokes aside, i hope lockwood is doing okay :( he’s a really big inspiration to me and i hope he’s happy even if he’s not online.  


* * *

Some people, Anthony knows, find themselves losing their grip with bodily maintenance when their mind is otherwise occupied. He certainly gets the appeal of sitting in bed and refusing to so much as even look at hand soap when one is so caught up in their own sadness, but he can’t relate. Instead, Anthony has his own misery rituals. He gets in the shower and douses himself in hot water, as if scrubbing his skin with eucalyptus body gel for hours on end will somehow exfoliate away his sorrows.

He might not have changed out of his damp towel for three hours, but at least he smells good.

Anthony’s unstyled hair is wavy, and he has to part it on the side to keep it from getting in his eyes. He doesn’t remember a time since before university where he’d let his hair down like this, and it feels strange. He shuffles around the house in sweatshirts and joggers; Jessica pulls a face when she sees his outfit, but doesn’t comment.

But there’s no point dressing up when all he does is waft around his room. Anthony calls his agent and tells him to cancel all of his scheduled events for the next week, and when asked why, mutters something about not feeling well.   


* * *

_ “Hullo, you’ve reached the number of Anthony J. Lockwood. So sorry to have missed your call. Please leave a voicemail at the tone, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Ta!” _

_ *beep* _

“Lockwood, this is Kipps. Quill Kipps. Look, if you don’t want to do this fitting, I can go off of your old measurements from Paris. Text me back when you get this call.”

“...I’ll see you next week, Anthony.”   


* * *

Jessica’s patience lasts for approximately two weeks and four days into their return home. It’s two in the morning when she knocks on Anthony’s door, and she throws it open before he can reply. He pokes a fluffy head out of his sheets, blinking groggily as his sister turns on his nightstand lamp.

“Jessica, bloody hell, I was asleep—”

“No you weren’t,” Jessica snaps, all usual silveriness absent from her voice. “I heard you tossing and turning all the way from my room.  _ Some _ of us have expensive Korean face masks that only work when we’re in our REM cycle.”

Anthony props himself up on his elbows; as dim as it is, he has to squint slightly for his eyes to adjust to the light. His sister stands at the foot of his bed, clad in a silk robe and fluffy slippers. Her lips are tugged downwards, brows furrowed, but her expression seems more upset than annoyed.

“It was nothing, Jess, go back to sleep,” he says. His tone is weary enough that not even he can believe himself. Despite his words, Anthony desperately wants Jessica to stay because he’s not sure what he’ll do when he’s alone again, but it all seems too much to articulate. 

Maybe it’s her stubbornness, or perhaps just a testament to how well they know each other, but Jessica uncrosses her arms and takes a seat on his bed. They’re both silent for a long while, not looking at each other; it’s quiet enough that Anthony can hear the grandfather clock down the hallway ticking. His shoulders are beginning to hurt from propping him up, and he wonders if Jessica’s about to start demanding to know what’s wrong, but all she does is sigh.

“Anthony, you don’t have to tell me what’s going on, but please don’t make yourself pretend that everything is fine. I really hope you can talk to someone about whatever’s going on,” Jessica says. Her tone is unusually gentle, her words slow and precise enough to sound almost rehearsed. She must have been thinking about what to say to him since the flight home, Anthony understands, and he’s oddly moved by the realization. She, more than anyone else, knows his habit of avoiding his more uncomfortable feelings.

Anthony sits up straight, back against the headboard. He fiddles with the sleeve of his pajama shirt, absentmindedly rubbing the silky material between his fingers. 

“Could I talk to you about it? Not now, but...some time?” He asks.

Anthony yelps when Jessica hits his shoulder. 

“Of course, stupid,” Jessica says exasperatedly, like he’s seven and she’s thirteen and he’s just asked her if their parents have first names. For some reason, it makes Anthony ever-so-slightly feel better.

Jessica gives him a toothy grin, and he returns it. Their smiles are identical.

* * *

**anthony:** I miss talking to you.

**anthony:** I’m sorry.

**anthony:** I hope you’re doing well.   
  


Anthony bites his lip, contemplates his screen, and erases the message before he can do anything stupid like send it.    


* * *

March slides into April, and the new month’s edition of Fittes arrived on the doorstep of 35 Portland Row in crinkly cellophane. Jessica’s in Wales for a film shoot, and so Anthony leaves the magazine sitting outside for a week, letting it marinade in rain water and fallen leaves. He only takes it in when he trips over it one too many times.

Unpeeling the transparent wrapper, he sees the cover model: smooth-skinned, smiling, face unblemished from the persistent rain. She’s a supermodel Anthony’s met before, and he knows she’s kind and human in real life, but something about her face on paper bothers him. The corners of her eyes are crinkled, her hair blowing behind her from the gust of an artificial wind, and her clothing is immaculate. Anthony can identify the brands of her outfit by eye: the top, Prada, £2,398. The bracelet, Cartier’s panther collection, £51,400. Her earrings, Bvlgari, £27,000 apiece. She wears them like they're nothing, but so does he.

It’s all numbers, Anthony realizes. It’s the numbers on their social media handle, on the price tag of a purse, on the number of candles ordered for a fashion runway. 

It’s the numbers of pages in an edition of Fittes.

The page number of Fittes’ credit’s page.

The name down a list of numbered names under “Contributing Writers.” Four, seven.

Lucy Carlyle.

Anthony’s eyes, dark and sharp, linger over the printed ink for a minute. It aches, yes, but it’s not as fresh as he had imagined it would be. It’s dull, settling at the base of his head, throbbing bluntly like a cauterized wound.

Standing over the dining room table where he’s spread out the magazine, Anthony flips back to the cover and stares at the model’s face.

It’s his face, he realizes. Not literally, of course, but—he recognizes himself in the artificial glimmer in her eyes, in the expression on her face that says “ _ Who am I? Do you want to be me? Do you want to know me? Do you want to love me?” _

And Anthony feels like he’s suddenly seeing himself through Lucy’s eyes.

And he wants to throw up.

* * *

_ “Hullo, you’ve reached the number of Anthony J. Lockwood. So sorry to have missed your call. Please leave a voicemail at the tone, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Ta!” _

_ *beep* _

“Anthony, this is Sykes. You know, your agent? I just wanted to reach out and confirm that you want me to cancel, quote your email, ‘every appointment.’ Let me know if you want me to publish an official statement for you.”

* * *

**_DREAM TRIO NO MORE? ANTHONY LOCKWOOD MISSING FROM QUILL &MUNRO’S APRIL COLLECTION._ **

_ Londoners of all ages and all fashion archetypes know the iconic partnership of Anthony Lockwood, Quill Kipps, and Holly Munro. Ever since Quill&Munro’s early beginnings, three things have been certain: 1) their brand would always do the unexpected, 2) Kipps’ annual all-black October collection, and 3) Lockwood being featured in every major event. Despite the young model’s strong bent towards classic, dapper styles, under Quill&Munro’s hands, he’s a chameleon.  _

_ For the first time in the six year history of the fashion house, Lockwood did not grace their April edit. The collection, which was inspired by the cherry blossom festivals of Japan, showcased soft pinks and East-meets-West styles, but no sign of London’s favorite rising supermodel. _

_ “While I’ll admit that, personally, it’s a bit of a disappointment to not see Anthony [Lockwood] in the new collection, I can’t say that I’m surprised. The fashion industry is cutthroat, and partnerships can’t last forever,” said Annabel Ward, long-time industry icon and co-founder of luxury jewelry house FE Ward (formerly Fairfax and Ward.)  _

_ Munro, only recently back from her honeymoon with new wife Katharine Godwin (our own fashion editor), responded with a brief message on Lockwood’s absence. _

_ “Anthony is one of my dearest friends and collaborators. As always, I look forward to seeing what he accomplishes next.” _

_ Kipps declined to comment. Lockwood, likewise, could not be reached on any front, and his agent, Nigel Sykes, declined to comment. _

_ While Munro’s words have soothed some concerns over the potential Lockwood/Quill&Munro split, fans and industry watchers alike remain anxious over Lockwood’s next public appearance. He was not present at sister Jessica Lockwood’s side at Flo Bone’s film retrospective in Cardiff. Some speculation has reigned that the London-born model has gone into hiding to prepare for the Met Gala in early May, but general consensus remains unclear. _

_ One thing is certain: fashion-conscious Brits everywhere are eager to see what Lockwood’s next move is. _

* * *

Holly Munro—sweet, beautiful, bloody  _ persistent _ Holly Munro—sends him emails almost daily. At first, they’re updates about her honeymoon, snapshots of her and Kat on the beach, inquiries if Anthony wants any souvenirs from Hawai’i. Then, when she comes back to England (looking luminously refreshed, with a lobster-esque Kat at her side), Holly begins sending Anthony progress pictures of various ensembles for him to model. She never says, but Anthony suspects that Kipps informed her about everything as best he could.

Anthony doesn’t mean to ghost her (or anyone, really), but he stares at the messages on his screen, listens to his voicemails, and not a single word suitable for response falls into his head. It’s not as if he feels like he’s not  _ worthy _ of responding to people; it’s more like he can’t think of a reason why he should.

In the end, he clicks and reads every email Holly sends him, but leaves them unanswered. Anthony’s not sure what would frustrate her more: him ignoring her completely, or knowing that Anthony’s been reading every one of them and simply not reciprocating. He almost wants to write to her and ask her for her advice. Holly always knows what to do in an uncomfortable social situation. 

Hell, Holly would probably have the foresight to not become entangled in an uncomfortable social situation to begin with.

* * *

_ “Hullo, you’ve reached the number of Anthony J. Lockwood. So sorry to have missed your call. Please leave a voicemail at the tone, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Ta!” _

_ *beep* _

“Hey, Lockwood. It’s Flo Bones. Your sister missed you in Cardiff, and I think George did too. Honestly, events aren’t the same without your weird lanky presence. Hope you’re not dead.  _ Ciao _ .” 

* * *

Not working is surprisingly enjoyable. Anthony’s been employed since he was sixteen, been in the public eye for even longer, and he’s always had a hard time finding passion in things outside of modeling and interviews until now. Now, he thinks he has a real talent for putting on fruity face masks and watching the day slide by him. It might be his true calling.

Anthony has a bit of a daily routine now. He gets up after Jessica’s already gone, makes himself lunch, piffles about for a few hours, and then makes Jessica dinner. He knows that his sister’s still concerned about him, especially as he still hasn’t talked about what happened, but true to her word, Jessica doesn’t push the issue.

“Your cooking’s getting better,” she says to him, kind enough to not point out his under eye circles or deeply unflattering sweater.

But Anthony’s little corner of Portland Row is shaken up in the second week of April, when the front door slams open and the late spring wind blows in Quill Kipps: ginger, slightly damp, and above all else, furious.

“Kipps?” Anthony asks, stunned. He hasn’t seen him in person since Holly’s wedding, and sentences fight in the front lobe of Anthony’s brain to be the first to be said, but his next words come purely from instinct: “You look like a drowned rat.”

“ _ Shut _ the  _ fuck _ up,” Kipps says, swiftly throwing his umbrella into the stand near the front door with a frightening amount of force and rushing towards Anthony. For a second, Anthony thinks that Kipps is finally going to throttle him to death (and honestly, fair enough, it’s been a long time coming), but instead Kipps throws his hands on Anthony’s shoulders and pulls him into a hug.

The other man is much shorter than Anthony, and bony underneath his four layers of sweaters, but warm. Anthony, for once, has no idea what to say, and lets himself be held by Kipps. 

“Anthony,” Kipps says, pulling away from him. He looks tired but self-assured, orange hair pushed back into a neat coiff, the sleeves of his black turtleneck rolled up. Anthony can see the corner of a new tattoo on his forearm, and it’s a damning reminder of how life moves on without him.

“Quill,” Anthony says. He’s not really sure why they’re on a first name basis now, but it feels right. “Did Jessica ask you to come here?”

Kipps runs his hands over his face and sighs. “No. I wanted to see what you were doing.”

Anthony looks over to the sofa in the paror, where he had been about to nest himself in for the night. “I was just about to start the new season of Bake Off, so—”

“No, moron,” Kipps snaps, but there’s no bite behind his words. “I meant, with your life. Are you really pulling out of the Met Gala?”

Anthony grimaces and gestures for Kipps to sit down; he does so on the chair opposite Anthony’s sofa. Kipps sits on the very edge of the seat, legs and arms folding into sharp angles parallel to the ground. Anthony, meanwhile, stretches himself over the couch, letting the cushions swallow him up. Kipps cuts straight to the point. 

“Something happened,” he says, and there’s no question in his voice. 

Anthony lets out a pained noise from the back of his throat, but Kipps doesn’t say anything else. Anthony exhales through his nose and cranes his neck up to the ceiling, as if the light fixtures of Portland Row will somehow solve his problems for him.

“I kissed Lucy Carlyle,” he confesses.

Kipps doesn’t react with surprise or shock, like Anthony had expected he would. Instead, Kipps lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff.

“About time,” Kipps says.” So, what—have you eloped with her, or something?”

Anthony jolts up to face the other man. “Wait, you’re not going to ask anything about the kiss?”

“What? Why would I? I certainly don’t want any intimate details,” Kipps says, an impressive amount of indignation on his sharp face. He looks kind of like someone’s just asked him to eat a live worm, which Anthony decides not to take as an insult. Anthony runs a hand through the swoop of his hair.

“I meant—what do you mean by ‘about time’?”

“Well, she’s had a crush on you since London Fashion Week, hasn’t she? She specifically asked to go backstage in Paris to bring you pastries, and she turns bright red whenever anyone mentions you,” Kipps says matter-of-factly. “And you always have this expression after you talk to her, like—”

Kipps straightens up and smiles too widely, fluttering his eyelashes rapidly a couple of times. Anthony scowls. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t look like that.

And also, seeing Kipps force an all-teeth smile is kind of unsettling, in a serial-killer sort of way.

“So, that’s why you’ve been missing in action for nearly a month? You have a girlfriend?” Kipps asks.

Anthony’s scowl melts back into the expression of ennui that’s become his default state over the past few weeks. “No. No, I...I messed everything up.”

Kipps doesn’t say anything, which Anthony is grateful for. He knows that they like to rile each other, but they’ve learned when jokes are appropriate and when they aren’t. This is definitely one of the latter times.

“After I kissed her—or she kissed me—actually, I’m not sure which it was—”

“Focus, Anthony,” Kipps says, his voice sharp but not unkind.

“Right. Well, after we kissed, I panicked. I said something I shouldn’t have, and it all kind of spiraled out of my control.”

Shakily, Anthony recollects the anger in Lucy’s eyes, her abject embarrassment, and his downward spiral afterwards. He doesn’t look at Kipp’s face as he speaks; it would be too much pressure, Anthony knows, so his gaze remains fixated on the ceiling. He tells Kipps about Lucy’s discomfort over his fame and her refusal to date a celebrity.

“Hm,” Kipps says. Anthony turns himself over on the couch to look at Kipps, surprised by the skepticism in the noise. The ginger man’s eyebrows are drawn together in an expression of contemplation, and he’s curled a finger under his chin in a way that Anthony’s only seen done by fictional monks.

“What?” Anthony asks, when Kipps’ silence has stretched from thoughtful to awkward and kind of nerve-wrecking. 

“Anthony, I’m going to be blunt with you.”

“When are you not?”

Kipps ignores the half-hearted jab. “It sounds like you’re focusing on the wrong thing. This isn’t about Lucy.”

Anthony sits up. “What?”

“Let me clarify. Yes, you made a huge mistake by saying something like  _ that _ immediately after kissing her. But she honestly could have handled it better too. You know as well as I do that Lucy has a short temper. Neither of you are faultless, but what happened is not something an honest discussion wouldn’t fix.”

Anthony moves to interrupt, but Kipps shushes him in a manner rather reminiscent of a school teacher.

“The real question, Anthony, is: why haven’t you reached out?”

“I hurt her, and I don’t know what to say,” Anthony says immediately. It’s something he’s told himself for weeks now, and the words come easily to the tip of his tongue. “If she doesn’t want anything to do with me, then I don’t want to cross—”

“You misunderstand me. I meant: why haven’t you reached out to  _ anyone else _ ?” Kipps asks. “I’ve seen you experience heartbreak before. What’s different about this time that makes you hesitate from talking to your agent, or attending a show, or showing up for a fitting?”

“Because Lucy’s different.”

“Bullshit. Wrong. Try again,” Kipps says. Anthony opens his mouth to defend her, but Kipps’ expression softens slightly and the words die in Anthony’s throat. Kipps continues.

“I don’t mean that Lucy is not a talented woman, or that your relationship with her is bad in any regards. She has very little to do with this. My point is that you’re fixating on  _ her _ rather than on  _ yourself _ . Why have  _ you _ seemingly disappeared from the industry you’ve been a part of for six years?”

The words tumble out of Anthony’s mouth before he can fully process them in his mind.

“Because I don’t know if I want to be a part of it anymore.”

His eyes widen, and he slumps over slightly on the couch as if the weight of his words have taken lifeforce out of him.  _ This _ is what he’s been tiptoeing around for the past month, and now it’s out in the open, and Anthony’s heart feels like it’s made out of concrete as it jumps higher in his chest.

“I—I just can’t do this. I always told myself that I would sacrifice  _ anything _ for my career, but I’m tired and I’m worn out and I feel like nothing I do matters. You and Holly create wearable art, Lucy wrote her way up from a tiny town in the north to Fittes magazine, and I’m...I’m nothing without work. Do you know what I’ve been doing since I canceled our fittings? Nothing. I don’t have any hobbies, Kipps. I don’t read books, or sing, or cook—hell, I can’t even make fried rice without someone helping me. Kipps, I’m  _ Chinese _ and the concept of  _ frying rice _ was too much for me.”

“The problem isn’t even inherently in modeling. It’s that it’s not my passion. My passion is wearing nice clothes. My passion is being admired. My passion is being liked. My passion is being  _ famous _ ,” Anthony says, and the admission disgusts himself to the point where he feels slightly dizzy. He’s well aware that he's rambling now; he has to actively pause and take a deep breath to keep himself from passing out from a lack of oxygen.

“When I started being around Lucy, I was thinking about something other than work for the first time in years. I felt like I was truly making a difference for her, and she impacted me just as much. I made her more comfortable in an unfamiliar industry, but she...she made me realize I want to be a more complete person.”

Finishing his sentence, Anthony looks up to see that Kipps is gawking at him in an expression torn between amazement and exasperation. Anthony suddenly feels very self-conscious: a feeling he’s not familiar with, but one that’s almost cathartic in its manifestation. It makes everything feel more real.

“Does that mean you’re quitting?” Kipps asks, voice soft.

Anthony swallows, and the motion is rough, considering how he’s just monologued a whole revelation without a single sip of water. 

“I think so. Maybe not forever, but...yes,” Anthony says. 

It feels as if he’s broken a glass cage around his nerves, as feeling rushes back into his body and Anthony lets out a sigh of relief. His hands had been shaking the whole time, and he hadn’t even noticed.

He opens his mouth, ready to justify his decision to one of his oldest industry friends, but he doesn’t have to. Kipps is looking at him with an awkward, but genuine sort of pride, one that makes Anthony smile widely for the first time in months.

And that’s when he knows that this is the right choice.   


* * *

_ “Hello. This is Lucy Carlyle. If you’re hearing this, then I can’t come to the phone right now, but please leave a message. If this is a work matter, please email me. Thanks.” _

_ *beep* _

_  
_ “Hi Lucy. This is Anthony. I’m...I’m really sorry about what happened in March.”

“I hope you’re doing well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BLEHHHH This chapter was HARD to get out I tell you. Anthony's in the pit of despair, and it's not the most fun chapter to write with minimal bantz and no fashion. BUT it is super important, I think, to the story over all, so I really wanted to take my time with it. Real life stuff kept getting in the way too - it's a complicated time out there right now. Thank you for being patient. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the different structure of this chapter, and that you're just as excited as I am for these two idiots to finally be honest with each other soon. Leave a comment or a kudos if you feel so inclined, and I'll see you next time!


	9. New York City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to the lovely, beautiful, funny, and kind @dumbledoreslingerie for beta-ing this silly, bloated fic all the way until the very end. Without you, this story would not have been possible, and without this story, our friendship wouldn't be as awesome as it is now. <3

There’s a line of reporters and their cameras, stretching so far down the block that the entire sidewalk is just a long stroke of black-tie formal. It’s not late enough in the day for it to be dark outside yet; instead, the inches of sky that are visible through the cracks of the skyscrapers are a hazy sort of blue-purple. The weather is astoundingly perfect for a night like this, all clear and temperate. Anthony’s curls are gently ruffled by what he thinks is the breeze, before realizing it was the slipstream of a passing taxi cab and not nature itself.

That makes sense. He is, after all, deep in the city. The wind eludes places like this.

Still, the entire area is very pretty. Anthony appreciates the tall columns and intricate windows of the Metropolitan Museum, all illuminated in a warm golden light. He’s so used to fashion venues being minimalistic to the point of clinical, and it’s a nice reminder of how elaborate an aesthetic can be. The Palais Garnier in Paris was similar, he thinks. 

Anthony hears some light chatter. He’s not close enough to make out any specific words, and there are too many conversations going on at once to try, but the sound itself is soothing. So much work goes into every step of an event like this, and he feels humbled and strangely proud as every reporter files into place, and every assistant to their station. 

He’s never really seen the venue be set up before—after all, in the past, he had always been preoccupied with his own preparations backstage. Being present for this one-of-a-kind exhibition feels like a learning moment, and he tries not to make his observations too overt. The last thing Anthony wants is to draw attention to himself.

The theme of this year’s Met Gala is “ _Danse Macabre - Dark elegance through the 19th Century._ ” The museum will be showcasing its collection of elaborate formalwear, from the Regency to the turn of the century, everything from dresses to engraved fans to hats bigger than most dogs. It’s _the_ fashion event of the year, one that celebrities and designers (and celebrity designers) would kill to be invited to. 

Anthony Lockwood sits on a bench on Fifth Avenue, observing the sleek carpet that rolls up to the museum’s entrance. It’s a prestigious event. It promises to be a beautiful one. 

Anthony Lockwood was invited. 

Anthony Lockwood will not be in attendance.

* * *

**_Three weeks ago…_ **

“Are you sure?” Holly asks. There’s still a blush to her cheek; it had first appeared from delight when she had seen Anthony again, but he thinks that it might be rapidly turning into a flush of dismay. 

“I’m sorry,” Anthony says instinctively and for what must be the fourteenth time. This only seems to make Holly more upset.

“No! No, don’t be sorry. You shouldn’t be sorry. If this is what you want, then I’m happy for you,” Holly says, and then pauses. “Overwhelmed and a bit confused, yes. But happy still.”

“His measurements are common enough,” Kipps says. He’s sitting in the corner of the room, an open magazine in his lap. At first glance it would appear as if the ginger man hadn’t been paying attention to his two friends, but Anthony can tell from the tenseness of his shoulders that Kipps is indeed listening closely. 

The older man’s words make Anthony feel even more apologetic.

“I hadn’t even thought of that—Holly, I know you put a lot of planning into the ensemble, and I’d be more than happy to help you get in contact with another model. I know Luke Sevinders has similar measurements, and he’s a big fan of Quill&Munro—”

“Oh, Anthony, honestly! I’m not worried about that! I know our brand, and I’m sure something will work out. But it won’t be the same, will it?” 

Anthony blinks. “I suppose it won’t, but I thought that was the point of alterations?”

Holly can read Anthony easily, and she’s clearly caught on to the fact that he hasn’t really grasped her point. She sighs, a wistful, sweet sound that reminds him of a bell, looking fond and only a little exasperated.

“Anthony, I’m so, so happy to know that you’re doing what’s best for yourself. But I am sad to know that we won’t be working together anymore. You’ve practically been the third founder of our house, and I—” Holly’s voice cracks, a first in the time Anthony’s known her. “I’ll _really_ miss you.”

The implications of Holly’s words finally sink into his brain, and he rushes to correct her presumption. Anthony takes her hands. “Hols, there’s no need to miss me. Working together or not, you’re one of my closest friends. No one else understands my aesthetic as much as you do, or is willing to go vintage shopping with me, or can share as many juicy secrets about Kipps as you can.”

“Hey,” the voice from the corner says, sounding very indignant. “I pulled your arse out of Portland Row, and this is the thanks I get?”

Despite the tears welling up in the corners of her dark eyes, Holly giggles. Anthony wordlessly offers out his arms; the simple gesture is enough to make Holly _properly_ burst in tears as she warmly accepts his hug. Anthony pats her back, and Holly turns her head so that her face isn’t pressed against him. 

Classic Holly. Considerate of his clothes, her tears, and her makeup, even during emotional turmoil.

“Well, this is all very heartwarming,” Kipps says, but the words lack his usual bite. He stalks out of his chair in the corner and hovers a step away from them, hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers like he’s not sure what to do with himself. There’s a furrow between his brows that makes Kipps look rather like a sulking cat. Anthony and Holly exchange a look, and then, deciphering the issue at the exact same time, roll their eyes. 

“Come on, gingersnap,” Holly says, eyes sparkling, as Anthony reaches a long arm out and yanks Kipps into their hug. Kipps yelps.

“You’re both incorrigible,” he mutters.

Nevertheless, Kipps ducks his head between Anthony and Holly and joins their embrace, smelling like coffee and geraniums and Doublemint chewing gum. 

* * *

**_Now_ **

Anthony rather likes the little nook he’s found for himself. Most of the block around the event is closed off to the public but Anthony had been allowed past the perimeter after calling in on one last favor. He’s currently not making much of his connections: all he’s doing is sitting on a low concrete planter on the street across from the museum, occasionally taking a sip of tea from a paper cup. Earlier, he’d stopped by a cute Jewish American bakery, but his babka is nothing more than a delicious memory from half an hour ago.

Anthony’s too long a person for his low angle on the ground to be comfortable, so he stretches out his legs. He’s dressed casually, in a car coat and dark slacks; so far, no one’s done a double-take upon seeing him. It’s a nice change of pace, he thinks. Plus, it’s nice to wear shoes that aren’t cutting off the circulation in his toes for once.

The area outside of the museum is starting to get busy, Anthony notices. Luxury cars of every brand, size, and color are circling the block in a neat line—no doubt some of this evening’s most prestigious guests have matched their car to their ensemble. With little else to do, he passes the time playing a game of his own invention. Having been to enough of these events, Anthony can match the cars to their owners.

He smiles to himself when he sees Penelope Fittes slink out of a dark green car—as predicted, clad in a matching emerald dress, the huge crescent moon in her hair shining in the flash of the cameras. Annabel Ward comes in the black stretch limo; a little outdated and impractical, but no one’s going to say _that_ to one of the industry’s most seasoned veterans.

Anthony’s too far away to make out any of the finer details, but he finds he doesn’t need to when a familiar silhouette steps out of a plain black car. He’d recognize his sister anywhere, he thinks, and not just because she’d bully him endlessly if he didn’t. 

From where he’s sitting, Jessica’s dress looks entirely grey. However, she’d shown it to him beforehand; Anthony knows that it's made out of a thin tulle, with black lace up and down the skirt. A Quill&Munro original.

Kipps, Anthony thinks dryly, must have swooned from joy upon finding out this year’s theme. Quill Kipps probably rocks himself to sleep to images of _Danse Macabre_. 

Speaking of the other man, Anthony sees him step out onto the white carpet, settling a few paces away from Jessica. Anthony isn’t as familiar with Kipps’ ensemble and he can’t make it out well from this distance, but he’s not terribly concerned. Knowing the speed with which photographers work these days, high-quality images shot with professional cameras will probably be available on his phone in less than five minutes. 

Anthony’s mind mentally ping-pongs back from the thought of reporters; he instinctively draws his arms closer, suddenly struck back down to earth. His mouth is very dry, but taking a sip from his cup only makes his tongue feel even more like sand. Afterall, he’s not here for the Gala.

* * *

**_Two weeks ago…_ **

Anthony wrings his hands, a habit he’d learned from Jessica long ago, who in turn had learned it from their father to begin with. He’s sitting at a wooden dining table in a matching chair, both furniture pieces slightly too small for his long form. His elbows just out at an awkward angle as he smooths his hands over the table’s surface. The table is clearly only meant for two people.

Three’s a crowd, afterall; Anthony resists the urge to bite his lip as he looks over to his hosts: George Cubbins and Flo Bones. Despite the fact that they’re all around the same age, Anthony can’t help but feel as if he’s sitting in front of his headteacher back in primary school. And with the turn this conversation has taken, this entire situation definitely feels more like an office meeting than a friendly dinner. 

“Did something I say confuse you, Anthony?” Flo asks, one arm draped over the other. They’d been dining for the past half hour or so, and while Anthony had thoroughly enjoyed George’s cooking, he suddenly lost his appetite.

Anthony sighs. “Yes.”

“Which part?”

“...All of it?”

Flo sighs and pops a cherry tomato into her mouth, biting down with a frightening amount of force. 

“You need to talk to Lucy,” she repeats. “Lucy Carlyle,” she clarifies needlessly, as if Anthony could have possibly forgotten Lucy’s name within the month-and-a-half since he’s spoken to her.

After several more blank seconds of blinking at Flo, Anthony sets his fork down, feeling confused and a little annoyed. “I’ve already tried reaching out to her. She hasn’t responded, as you know, and so I’ve decided to just leave it be.”

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t.” 

He feels the phantom pangs of a headache that’s yet to arrive, but can’t be far away. “I doubt that doggedly pursuing her and ignoring her boundaries will endear me to her any further.” 

Anthony’s answering Flo, but it’s George that responds to him.

“That would usually be smart, but Lucy’s always been hard-headed. She’s been obviously upset ever since your falling out, but she refuses to acknowledge it whenever I bring it up. It’s kind of getting on my nerves, to be honest.”

“So your point is?”

“ _My point is_ that—I’ve heard your side of the story,” George says, pointing at Anthony for emphasis. “And I’ve heard Lucy’s side of the story. And what’s _funny_ is that you both end up blaming yourselves way more than you blame the other person.” 

“...What?”

Flo rubs her temples. “Don’t most people describe you as well-spoken?”

Anthony grimaces; everything about his body language makes it clear that he’s not in the mood to banter with Flo. Despite her sharp tone, it’s clear that Flo does want to help him. She straightens up in her seat, throwing her scraggly blonde plait over her shoulder, and gives him a look that one could almost call _sympathetic_. 

“You really do need to talk to her. I don’t mean that you need to sweep her off her feet, or even that you two need to get together. But you’re both clearly blaming yourselves for an interaction that, in my opinion, wasn’t that big of a deal.” 

“How can you say that?” Anthony asks, his tone more shocked than angered.

“Because I have eyes and ears, and I saw how close you two were. Romance or not, you two seemed really good for each other,” Flo says. “You’re less of a weird smiley person when you’re around her, and Lucy actually started participating in events once you started talking to her.” 

“We’re not saying you didn’t do anything wrong,” George says, and with his gentler tone and floral apron, Anthony can’t help but feel confusingly maternal vibes radiate off the blonde man. “But if you’re sorry—”

“More than anything,” Anthony says.

“—You’re sorry, and she’s sorry, and you both at the very least like each other, so you should reach out to her again.” 

Anthony lets George’s words wash over him, staring down at the streaks of pesto that smear across the porcelain plate as if they’ll give him an enlightening answer. He desperately wants to talk to Lucy again, and he knows that it’s him that needs to reach out to her first. Perhaps he _could_ wait for Lucy to answer his call from so many days ago, but that doesn’t seem right. It was him, afterall, who pushed for Lucy to be confident in herself and her abilities; what kind of hypocrite would he be if he didn’t take his own advice?

She doesn’t need to take him back (can you be “taken back” if you were never officially together to begin with?), but he at least wants to see her again. His stomach churns at the idea of that horrible, awkward moment at the wedding as their last interaction together. 

“Okay,” Anthony says, and George grins and Flo throws her hands up and says “finally!”

“Okay,” Anthony repeats, and the word feels foreign but exhilarating. “But, um, might I remind you that she hasn’t responded to my call? How do I...”

“Get in contact with her?” George predicts, and Anthony nods. George and Flo exchange a look, the meaning of which is inscrutable to Anthony. 

Finally, Flo props her elbows back on the table and says: 

“Don’t worry about that at _all_ , Anthony,” and her smile only makes Anthony feel _more_ worried.“We’ve got it under control.” 

* * *

**_Now_ **

Cars come and go for the better half of the next two hours, with people routinely stepping out, posing on the white carpet for pictures, and disappearing into the marble embrace of the museum. After a few minutes, Anthony quickly grows bored of the watching the gala attendees (who were little more than well-dressed blobs from this distance) and pulls out his phone. He’d been lucky to charge it in the bakery earlier.

Anthony taps on the notification for a Fittes article, updated live by various journalists and photographers working with the publications. His heart beats quickly as he waits for the familiar dark green logo of the publication to load; once the article is loaded, Anthony quickly swipes past the byline and down to the content. 

(For some reason, he feels like seeing her in person would be easier than seeing her name on his screen.) 

Once he gets his fill of _actual_ reporting and news, he goes onto the website for the Hambleton Times. Model or not, gossip rags have been and will always be Anthony’s guilty pleasure. Perhaps it’s self-demeaning to admit, but he genuinely thinks that he’d be more heartbroken if the Hambleton folded than he would be over Fittes. Not that he’d ever say that to Kat, or George, or any of his other friends whose paychecks are marked with Penelope Fittes’ signature.

Humming quietly to himself, Anthony readjusts the fold of his legs and scrolls through the Hambleton’s front page, enjoying the sensational headlines. 

**_DISASTER! PASTY BIANCA GUERRA LOOKS GHASTLY ON THE WHITE CARPET._ **

Anthony can’t help but roll his eyes at the sensational headline. The woman looks fine—hell, next to him, Bianca would look down right swarthy.

**_Is DIVORCE in the air for newly-weds Holly and Catherine? Holly Munro shows up to Met Gala DATELESS!_ **

This headline makes Anthony chuckle and shake his head. Knowing how furious Kat will most likely be when she sees the article (with her name misspelled!), Anthony can only hope that the Hambleton Times has a good lawyer.

However, it seems like an amusing read. Anthony clicks on the article.

Holly looks luminous in an off-white Dior gown, laughing so brilliantly that Anthony imagines that she’s laughing at the article itself. The rumor is ridiculous. 

Anthony knows that the reason why Kat Godwin isn’t in attendance with Holly Munro is that being present at such a highly-covered event opens several doors to accusations of a conflict of interest. She is, after all, fashion editor at Fittes.

In confidence, Holly had mentioned that Kat would be interviewing for a position in another branch of Fittes so that they could attend events together more freely, but Anthony wasn’t about to tell a gossip rag that.

He clicks to the next article. 

**_Miserable Jessica Lockwood stood up by her own brother for the Met Gala._ **

Anthony pulls a face at the headline. He doesn’t like any part of it: not the offensive terminology, not the baseless rumor, and certainly not the quasi-incestuous implications of being “stood up.” 

He quickly glances back up towards the museum steps. It seems as if things are winding down outside, but Anthony still has some time to kill, so he starts reading. 

_Jessica Lockwood, 29, has not been public about her love life for several years now, and it’s no mystery as to why! Given how disastrous Lockwood’s romantic affairs must be, many readers of the Hambleton Times became used to seeing the dashingly skinny Anthony Lockwood (23) at her side._

_However, given the younger Lockwood’s shocking resignation from the modeling industry late last month, he was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Miss Lockwood was forced to scrounge up a last minute date: Quill Kipps, of Quill &Munro, who also designed her dress. _

_“Jessica might be beautiful, but she’s way too tall for him,” Mrs. Kitty Pursia of Lancaster wrote on her Twitter. “She really should have considered her height before taking him as a date.”_

_When asked about where her brother was, Miss Lockwood said:_

_“Unfortunately, my brother has higher obligations tonight. Some long overdue business, really.”_

_It’s clear that Kipps is attending with Miss Lockwood out of a purely business obligation. We wish we could wipe the dour expressions off of their faces, but until then, chin up, Jess!_

Anthony, caught somewhere between laughter and anger, texts the article to both Jessica and Kipps. Knowing those two, Jessica will probably find the entire tone of the article hilarious, and Kipps will gloat over the fact that no publication has caught onto their relationship. 

Despite the light-hearted attitude he had put over himself as he read the article, Anthony would be lying if reading over his sister’s quote didn’t make his stomach flop. 

_Some long overdue business_.

Well, that’s _one_ way to put it. A higher obligation. 

Speaking of…

He had been so drawn into the article that he hadn’t really noticed,but the world is markedly quieter now. Anthony looks back up, across the street, and sees that the doors have been shut. Most reporters seem to be packing up, the white carpet now empty. The banquet part of the gala must have begun, and with its exclusivity, Anthony imagines that many of the people milling about are now done with their tasks. 

Not him, however. Now that the public display portion of the Gala is over, it’s time for Anthony to gather himself together in earnest. As if on cue, his phone buzzes once in his hands.

He reads the message.

**george** : she’s on her way

He tucks his phone back into his coat’s pocket and stands up, taking a moment to stretch his limbs. Sitting on the concrete plante had hardly been the most comfortable position (actually, his entire lower half feels a little numb), but Anthony quickly shakes the feeling off.

Before he can second guess himself, before his entire body can seize up and stop functioning out of fear, Anthony gathers his courage and crosses the street.

* * *

**_One week ago…_ **

Portland Row is the neatest it’s been in months—years, really, if Anthony’s really being honest with himself. For most of their adult lives, neither Anthony nor Jessica had ever done more than the required amount of cleaning. Their home was certainly not as cluttered as the Cubbins-Bonnard’s (Flo, Anthony learned, was rather taken with “collecting” road signs), but it also lacked the magazine-ready sheen of Holly’s office. 

Now, however, Anthony looks over the sitting room and imagines that Holly would give his interior design skills at least a heartfelt six out of ten. 

“Wow, it’s like I’m in a whole different house.”

Anthony turns to see his sister leaning against the doorway, dark hair spilling out of an untidy ponytail. She grins when he meets her eyes. 

“Look at you, Tony, all grown up! I couldn’t be prouder of us. We truly are a remarkable pair,” Jessica says, straightening up and walking to stand beside him. Anthony rolls his eyes at the nickname, having long since given up on any chance of her dropping it.

“Why ‘ _us_ ’? If I recall correctly, I was the only one cleaning all morning. _You_ went out,” Anthony says, but there’s no real bitterness in his voice. 

Rather than defend herself, Jessica’s smile only grows. “Fair enough, but I dare say you’ll think I’m plenty remarkable once you learn what I’ve done.” 

“What, exactly, did you do?”

“Called in a favor. For you. Or, rather for you and Lucy,” Jessica says casually. “There were some complications, but—”

Anthony starts. “Complications?”

She waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it, it’s all sorted now. Everything should go smoothly from now on. Well, at least from our end of things. We don’t know how your actual rendezvous will go. That’s all dependent on you.”

Feeling suddenly weak at the knees, Anthony sits down on the loveseat. Jessica takes a seat beside him; she’s considerate enough to focus her attention on retying her hair and not on the nervous energy that suddenly radiates like steam from her brother. He’s glad for it. It gives him time to collect his thoughts.

“Do you think I can do this?” Anthony asks, finally, after his heart has regained a beat at least somewhat resembling normalcy.

“Talk to Lucy? I think you can. I know it’s been awkward for the two of you, but she really does want to see you, Anthony,” Jessica says. Despite the fact that all of his friends have said the same thing and that none of them are the type to lie to spare his feelings, Anthony can’t help but still feel nervous.

There’s a lot in his life to be nervous about, nowadays. And honestly, even though it churns up his insides, ‘nervousness’ is a feeling Anthony has missed. The concept of risk is new and a little exciting.

“I really hope she does, Jess, because I…” Anthony says. The end of his sentence drifts away, but neither sibling feels any need to finish it. 

Anthony props his elbow on the sofa’s arm, eyes tracing the filigree on the front door mirror, and changes the subject. 

“It’s strange how different I feel from who I was last year. There’s been so much change.”

“Positive change?” Jessica asks, and Anthony knows from her delicate tone that she’s referring to his choice to stop modelling.

“Yes, I think so,” Anthony says. “I hope so.”

Both Lockwoods are silent for a minute. The grandfather clock upstairs ticks and tocks, tracking every single second that goes by.

“What will I do?”

The words come out before Anthony can stop them, and Jessica hums.

“You’re an intelligent, charming guy with a middling amount of internet clout. There’s a lot you can do, and whatever you decide to go into, you’ll do great in it,” she says. “Seriously, you’re twenty-three and you know yourself well enough to give up on something that isn’t fulfilling you. That’s not nothing. That’s impressive.”

Anthony turns back to Jessica, touched. “Thanks.”

Jessica smiles and leans forward. Anthony thinks she’s going in for a hug, but instead his sister reaches out a hand and musses up his hair.

“Jess,” Anthony complains, but he’s not upset.

It feels like he’s seven again, looking up to Jessica, surer than anything else in the world that his older sister is absolutely the coolest and strongest human being ever. 

* * *

**_Now_ **

It’s time. 

He can tell it’s happening now, because he can hear footsteps descending, heels against the marble stairs, and Anthony wishes for time to slow down and hurry up in tandem. Anthony closes his eyes, inhales, exhales, and turns around. 

The footsteps stop when he does, and they don’t continue despite the fact that she still stands three steps above him. He doesn’t begrudge her that; Anthony doesn’t move to close the distance between them. For now, that right belongs entirely to her.

She’s dressed in black. Of course she is; this is the Met Gala, and the press always wears black tie formal to these sorts of events. Long gone are the days where she teetered around in an old coat and scruffy brogues. Now, her bodice is black velvet, the darkness of the neckline contrasting with her light brown skin, creating angles against her clavicle. The dress’ skirt falls to her calves (and Anthony thinks that that, at least, is one constant of hers that will never change), but its drapes are made of lush velvet, not polyester.

Standing in front of her now, in his sweater and slacks and sneakers, Anthony feels sorely underdressed. 

(Fate, it seems, has a taste for dramatic irony.)

“Lucy,” he says. What else can he say?

Lucy is silent, but the lack of response is neither foreboding nor sweet; she simply stares at him like he’s a ghost, eyes flitting from his head to his hands and back up again. Anthony desperately wishes she would speak, and is at the same time afraid to hear her words.

Still, he says nothing else. Just tucks his hands (which have become cold with sweat despite the fair May evening) into the pockets of his coat and hopes she doesn’t notice.

“Anthony. Lockwood—” Lucy says, and her tone is every bit as awkward as Anthony himself feels. “Anthony Lockwood.”

“Anthony John Lockwood. Or Anthony John Leong-Lockwood, if we’re being thorough,” Anthony says almost automatically, latching onto any semblance of A Topic that he can and trying to make a joke. Lucy blinks at him. He thinks for a second that she’s going to turn around and leave, but then—

“Lucy Joan Carlyle,” she says.

“Oh! Very similar,” Anthony says. “Middle names, I mean.” 

“Yeah.” 

The sky is fully dark now, and the world around them is as quiet as any spot in a big city can be; car horns beep, a pigeon cries, and Anthony latches onto these sounds for all that they’re worth. He wonders if anyone else will walk outside and see them, but he doubts it. 

The dinner inside might be rowdy, the guests free to go where they please, but Anthony gets the feeling that Holly would bodily tackle any person who even thought about interrupting Anthony and Lucy’s conversation. The museum columns gleam gold behind Lucy, lighting the flyaways of her bob in a warm light. Her hair is slightly longer than the last time he’d seen her, styled neatly for the occasion. 

Anthony runs a hand through his own wavy hair, brushing that one stubborn curl out of his eyes. He’s been thinking about this conversation for weeks. He really needs to stop stalling.

But she beats him to it.

“I read that you’ve quit modeling. I wasn’t sure if it was true or just a rumor, but when Flo told me you had declined your invitation to the gala—you came anyways?” Lucy asks, but her question is more of a statement. “You’re here, after all.”

“I’m here,” he echoes, and it sounds like an affirmation. “I’m here, but I’m not here for the gala.”

Lucy, for all her hot-headed stubbornness and emotive expressions, has always been clever. She catches on to the implication behind his words and she flushes, the tips of her ears turning visibly bright red even in this low lighting.

“Look,” she says very quickly. “About what I said—if that made you quit—”

That hadn’t even been a reason that Anthony had entertained, and he rushes to correct her. “No, no, not at all. It was a long time coming, honestly. Well, I liked it, but—”

His voice gives out halfway through the sentence, and he coughs. There’s nothing physical preventing him from talking, yet Anthony feels uncomfortable saying anymore.

Still. He stands in front of Lucy, taking in the sight of her after weeks of not a word spoken between them, remembering how badly he had disappointed her all those weeks ago, and decides that she deserves completely formed explanations.  
“It was fun,” Anthony admits. “It was fun, but it was stifling, and I got so caught up in myself that I cared more about my potential future image than my life at the present. None of whatever success I might have found would be worth hurting someone as I hurt you.”

“But I hurt you too!” Lucy sputters out. She throws her hands forward and then quickly pulls them back, as if she was about to put her hands on his shoulders and reconsidered the gesture.

Anthony bites his lip. “Well, yes, but—”

“No, I was...Unfair. Really unfair,” Lucy says, rubbing her wrist. “You said something super... _dunderheaded_ , yes, but I took your words and lept to conclusions. I should have at least heard you out.”

“It was understandable. I shouldn’t have said what I did to begin with.”

“But you actually apologized to me, weeks ago, and I was too scared to call you back. I kept relistening to your voicemail, but I don’t know if I would have reached out to you if it wasn’t for George or Holly.”

“I shouldn’t have waited that long to call you to begin with—”

Lucy makes a choked noise somewhere between a laugh and a strangled scream and throws her hands up to her face. “ _Honestly_!”

Anthony pales. “Wh—”

“We can’t just stand here rattling off what we did _more wrong_ than the other person all night,” Lucy groans. “We’ll be here until the damn sun explodes just trying to out-apologize each other.” 

The mental image is, honestly, kind of funny and not entirely improbable. Anthony chuckles. “I can be an idiot at times.” 

“We’ll be idiots together, then,” Lucy says. Despite her dry tone, her words make Anthony fluster. She sees his nervous expression and catches on, her own face darkening with a blush. 

Anthony notices her shivering slightly. It’s not a surprise; her dress, while lovely and incredibly flattering, does little to protect her from the cool night air. 

“I feel like we’ve done this before,” Anthony says as he drapes his coat around her shoulders. It’s too big for her, naturally, but the sight of Lucy in a figure-swallowing coat brings back some fond memories. 

“We definitely have,” Lucy says. 

Anthony considers her. “It suits you.”

Lucy stammers, trying and failing to start a sentence several times, so Anthony steps in.

“I didn’t just kiss you out of the heat of the moment,” Anthony says gently, delicately, as if his words will shatter midair if he says them too boldly. Lucy quiets and considers him. 

“I had...I _have_ had feelings for you since,” Anthony says, and then pauses. “I’m not entirely sure, really. Before Paris, at least. I was never just flattering you when I spoke about how much I admire your dedication, or your kindness. You really do belong here, Lucy. More than I do, or ever did. You thrive here.”

Lucy continues to stare at him like he’s speaking a foreign language. Anthony steels himself and keeps talking.

“I would understand completely if you don’t feel the same way about me, all things considered. I would be more than happy to have you as a friend again, if you would like that as well. Still, I don’t think it would be right to not at least be upfront about it.” 

Anthony, feeling like he’s laid his heart at her feet, swallows roughly. It would be within her right to trample it. 

She stands there, clutching at her bare arms; her eyes are sharp and blazing with something Anthony can’t name, but isn’t frightened by. Even at her most bewildered, Lucy’s been admirably perceptive.

It’s one of the things he loves about her, really.

“Anthony,” Lucy says. “Can I kiss you?”

He sharply inhales, but his voice is astoundingly even as he says: “You can.”

“And when I do,” Lucy continues, taking a step down so that they’re eye-to-eye, “do you promise not to say anything stupid afterwards?”

A laugh bubbles up in his chest, light and sweet. Anthony feels like uncorked champagne. “Nothing stupider than usual.”

Lucy places her hands on Anthony’s shoulders. 

“I’ll take it.”

If their first kiss was spontaneous and fiery, their second is tenderly deliberate in every way. Anthony cups her jaw and lets himself just live; he feels the wisp of her lashes against his cheek, the rise and fall of her breaths, the weight of her hands against his sternum. Their lips are both slightly chapped from talking outside in the dry night air, but Anthony couldn’t care a wit.

They break apart. Anthony considers the quirk of her mouth and the glimmer in her eyes and kisses her again.

After they break apart for good, Anthony takes her hand, running his thumb over the ridges of her knuckles. He feels light enough to float up into the stratosphere. 

“Let’s run away into the night.” 

Lucy smiles but doesn’t pull her hand away; instead, she takes a step forward and lets him lead her down the stairs. “What, like an elopement? Already? We’ve only been together for two minutes.”

“Of course not. I’m a gentleman,” Anthony says, but he can’t stop the grin that grows on his face when she says the word “together.”

“Oh?” Lucy says. Anthony wouldn’t usually call Lucy coy, but there’s a certain set to her eyebrows that tells him he’s being challenged, and it feels strangely exciting. Having descended down the remaining two steps, Lucy is now on-level with Anthony, making him the proper amount of “tall” over her. 

Keeping her hand in his, Anthony spins Lucy around in a neat circle. 

“Let’s run away into a diner, then,” he amends, and Lucy’s surprised laughter is like water to his parched soul. “Or into a café, or a bakery, or a patisserie—”

“Or a deli?” Lucy asks, playing along.

“Sure. Cookery, bistro, et cetera.”

“Ad infinitum.” 

“Exactly, Luce,” Anthony says, the nickname rolling naturally off of his tongue. 

They walk down the street hand-in-hand, letting the lights of the foreign city wash over them. Every step takes them further and further away from the Metropolitan Museum, from the shine of celebrity and the allure of glamour, until eventually they’re tucked so far away in a little 24-hour diner that Anthony looks out the window and can’t remember which direction they came from to begin with.

And Anthony finds that he couldn’t be happier.

_FIN_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some after-canon notes:  
> \- Jessica and Kipps stay together; Jessica finally wins her Oscar at 38 and accidentally reveals their relationship in her speech. The news makes headlines for two days straight.  
> \- When Kat Godwin is eventually promoted to an international branch of Fittes, Lucy is promoted to replace her as Fashion Editor.  
> \- Anthony begins working at a non-profit focused on model advocacy, eventually being promoted to Director at age 30. His name never truly leaves the headlines, but he's much happier with the articles his name is attached to. 
> 
> Chapter notes:  
> \- Holly is wearing Dior's Junon dress from 1949.  
> 
> 
> \- Jessica is wearing this dress from Ulyana Sergeenko 's SS19 collection.  
> 
> 
> \- Quill is wearing this suit from Dior Homme's SS20 collection.  
> 
> 
> \- Lucy is wearing this dress from Alex Perry.  
> 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, commenting, kudos-ing, and generally being so supportive of this fic and my writing. I honestly never expected this AU to be embraced with such open arms (it's so niche, after all: fashion, weird formatting, no ghosties) but I am exceedingly grateful and touched that it was. I hope that you all ~~accept Asian Anthony Lockwood as canon now~~ enjoyed reading this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it, and I hope to be able to write for you again some day. ♡


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